Switch
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Gregory Lestrade never became a cop. He lives a charmingly mundane life. He runs a diner, lives with his best mate Donovan, is friends with Sherlock Holmes, and occasionally - when he closes down shop - he goes out and kills people for Mycroft Holmes. Most people do not know this about Gregory Lestrade. And he likes it that way.
1. Prologue

A/N: So, hello! Just a bit of an introduction-of-a-prologue, I realize. This is an AU fic (just to get that out there) where Lestrade was never a DI. He owns and runs a diner/cafe... yep. But not Speedy's, as fun as that would be. The story follows the BBC Sherlock storyline with Lestrade taking a different role in the story, but it may deviate otherwise from cannon when - and if - I decide (which, I haven't yet) Also, I don't think the story will really focus on Sherlock and John as I'm sure you've all already watched the series and know exactly what happens. This is a story that dictates the things that you DON'T see on TV. Meaning, you'll see mostly Mycroft, Lestrade, Anthea, and Donovan as the main focus.

And, just a warning to those who are used to regular updates, I am currently stuck in writer's block so (preemptive sorry!) don't panic if the updates turn out totally irregular. I may make you _**wait on a cliffhanger for AGES**_, okay? Just warning you!

Anyway, end of (whatever this long, probably-won't-be-read thing is, thank you patient people!) enjoy!

* * *

Switch

Prologue

Down in an inconspicuous niche in Central London there is a small cafe that I own and run myself.

Well, when I say 'cafe' I only mean in name. It started out as a cafe that served food, but now it's more of a diner that serves coffee, which is a pity because my flatmate tells me I make the coffee of gods.

Then again, she says the same thing about my food.

I am an early waker, it's an occupational hazard, really. I wake up at six in the morning and leave my flat, which stands on the second floor of my diner, and begin preparing to open shop.

I tend to start with coffee, both because I am still only half awake, and because I must prepare for my first customer of the day.

She wakes up a few minutes after me unless she gets called out on a case. Her name is Sally Donovan, she's both my flatmate and a detective sergeant of the New Scotland Yard. I've known her since ages ago.

She sounds like she's in a hurry today, probably a case, then... I'd better put her coffee in a disposable cup.

"Morning!" Donovan calls out as she rushes down the stairs in the back of the diner, throwing on a jacket as she goes. "Coming through!"

A hand drifts out leisurely holding a disposable cup of steaming hot liquid caffeine and Donovan just barely manages to snag it.

"Thanks!"

"Good luck today!"

"You too!" And she's gone like a whirlwind.

It's still a good hour before opening time and I am thoroughly busy with preparations when my second customer comes knocking.

Or - well - pawing and scratching.

I open the back door from the kitchen and she is sitting there, prim and expectant, like she does everyday.

It's Tuesday, which means it's tuna day.

"Hey, girl." Her coat of fur is clumped together in some places, I notice as I pet her. And her left ear is a little scratched. "You getting into fights again?"

"Mrrr." is the only response she deigns to give in between mouthfuls of tuna.

"You're hopeless."

I leave her to her food, she'll finish it in her own time. Meanwhile, I have a oven full of breakfast foods that will soon begin to burn if left too long.

"Yoohoo!" an elderly lady calls out.

She's early, by five minutes. No harm in that.

That is Mrs. Hathaway, she lives right across the street, she's been living here since before I built this diner. She always comes over for breakfast, since the passing of her husband and son in a car crash, she can't stand to eat alone at a table for three.

I can't blame her.

"Morning, Mrs. Hathaway!" I call out, "I'll be just another moment!" Because breads coming straight out of the oven is too hot to handle. Since opening up this diner, I think I have become quite the skilled juggler.

I always eat breakfast with Mrs. Hathaway, and Donovan, if she's not rushing about by then. I always try to tell Mrs. Hathaway that breakfast is free, a special just for her, but she won't have any of it, she always manages to pay me monthly by some trick or another.

She loves small talk. Seriously, there is nobody on earth who likes small talk more than Mrs. Hathaway. She is also an avid gossiper, one of the small joys in her life. She always has a new story or two that she heard from one of her bridge partners, Mrs. Hudson, about her tenants.

And they're such ridiculous and far-fetched stories that Mrs. Hathaway barely believes them, but she enjoys them anyway. They're very exciting. And Mrs. Hudson is not one to make things up like that.

Half-an-hour till opening time and Mrs. Hathaway has to go meet up with her girls for bridge and gossip which gives me just enough time to finish up in the kitchen.

"Hello, are you open?" A young lady calls out. She looks like a college student.

There are always a few of those who call in a bit early. I glance at the clock on the wall. It's a few minutes before opening time, but what the Hell.

"Come on in." I beckon her genially.

She buys a coffee and a croissant. How quaint. It suits her.

And a steady stream of customers keep me company until three o'clock in the afternoon. Seriously, there's no resting for me until then. I always consider hiring workers but it just feels a bit funny so I'm not pushing anything.

Although, Donovan's been known to wait a few tables and wash dishes when she's not working. She's an angel.

Four o'clock rolls around and a suited young man staggers in. I pull out a chair before he falls down. The bags under his eyes are black holes.

"Rough day, mate?" I ask curiously as he drops his head in his hands.

"Umphhh." he grunts, then lifts his head haggardly. "I mean, 'yeah'."

That earns him a chuckle because I am a simple man who is easily entertained. "Okay, what'll it be, then?" I ask.

"Um-... lunch - well - dinner, I guess." he garbles out, waving vaguely at the clock. "Coffee." he decides. "Coffee first."

"You sound like you could use it." I tell him honestly and brew him one of my stronger blends that is usually reserved for Donovan. "You didn't eat lunch, I take it?"

"Mhmm. Work." the man grunts out. "Donovan told me to get suitably fed and coffee-d, told me this was the place to come for it."

"Ah, a policeman, are we?" I smile.

"Inspector." he sighs. "Trust me, the title's not worth the paperwork."

"Well, let's get you fed and coffee-d." I propose as I slide a mug before him.

"Let's."

"Pasta sound good?"

"Sounds wonderful."

This man's name is Inspector Dimmock. I've heard about him from Donovan, he's her governor. I feel like I've known him a decade but this is the first time I'm actually meeting him.

It's interesting.

"Hullo there, Dearie!"

Ah, the voice of a nightingale.

"Mrs. Hudson." I grin. "How was bridge today?"

Mrs. Hudson makes herself comfortable in a chair and shakes her head sadly. "Going nowhere, I'm afraid." she sighs. "Went well for the first round until I mentioned the boys and then I had to recount all their adventures. Everyone forgot we were playing."

"So how _are_ the lads?" I ask.

"Oh, horrible." Mrs. Hudson lowers her voice to a conspiratory whisper. "I've got some new battle wounds on my walls, Sherlock and that terrible gun!"

Dimmock sitting a table down, raises his eyebrows mid cow-chew on a forkful of pasta, looking vaguely concerned but not interrupting.

Tea and a few pastries later, Mrs. Hudson goes home.

Dimmock scuttles off the moment his phone goes off with a call from Donovan.

It's been a monotonous day. I only hope that_ those_ people won't come along.

And speak of the Devil, the door opens for three very upset-looking men.

"Hey Greg." The blonde greets politely.

"Lestrade." The tall one with the coat nods brusquely.

"Good evening, Gregory." The three-piece-suited man hums, unconcerned.

If they were close friends, I'd tell them to get the Hell out and find a different diner to cause havoc in. Unfortunately, they are my most dangerous, interesting, and prolific patrons and I can only smile and say:

"Hello. Welcome to the Strangers Cafe."

And hope the building doesn't fall down by the time they leave. Which, with them, is a legitimate threat.

"We've come to shake the nuisance off our tail." Sherlock announces without preamble.

The nuisance in question sighs and shakes his head in disappointment. "Brother dear, really..."

My phone rings in my trouser pocket and I already know who the text is from.

The elder Holmes goes on berating his rude younger brother but his coat is hung over his hand. And I know that there is a phone in that hand.

Not a glance in my direction. He's secretive and professional like that.

I take their order and disappear into the kitchen to cook up something and to see what is wanted of me today.

**_I have a job for you. -MH_**

As he always does.

I sigh, roll my eyes, and get out the pans.

Looks like I'll have to close shop early today.

* * *

Recounting my day today, you may think that I lead a very quaint, boring life filled with cooking and listening to little old ladies gossiping but the truth is, my day starts when I close down my diner.

**_"Unit 2 approaching the vehicle."_**

Says the tiny female voice in my ear. I touch my earpiece.

"Copy. I see them."

I'm currently lying on my stomach out on a godforsaken roof in the middle of the night keeping an eye on the black sedan in the street below and the van driving up the road that I know houses four former SAS soldiers. It's less tense up here on the roof away from the action... but it's_ freezing_.

Contact will engage in about five seconds. I duck my head down tight and curl my finger around the trigger of my sniper rifle.

The van barely screeches to a halt behind the sedan when the SAS soldiers are jumping out and full on assaulting the black car.

A baffled-looking man in a suit is promptly dragged out and pinned to the ground, the man's bodyguard is next, the driver last. You'll have to give credit where it's due, and these SAS boys live up to their reputations.

But nobody counted for a rider in the shotgun seat doing a runner. I guess that's my cue...

Just a soft squeeze, barely even a twitch, and the man's head disappears quite abruptly from my cross-hairs.

The SAS soldiers barely even react, they don't bother wasting time. The three captives and one corpse is hauled into the back of the SAS van and they drive off. A minute or two later, the black sedan is also gone.

Mycroft Holmes is nothing, if not quiet and efficient.

**_"Good work boys."_** The voice in my earpiece speaks again. **_"Unit 2, back to base. Unit 1, stand by for interrogation. Unit 0, nice shot out there."_**

"Glad someone appreciates me." I smirk good-naturedly.

Someone in Unit 2 grumbles petulantly that they could've handled it. Of course they could've. Just thank me for once. But nah, this is Unit 2 I'm talking about.

I pack away my rifle and jog down seven flights of stairs to the street outside and drive off on my motorbike.

I have to take a quick pit stop at my safehouse to dump my gun and motorbike because it isn't public knowledge that Gregory Lestrade owns any of these things. And Donovan would have a fit over the gun.

"You're late."

The lights aren't even on but I know of only one person with a spare key to the safehouse who would see fit to visit, and would lounge around in my sitting room in the dark.

I pull a gun on him anyway... for security's sake, and because I know it's the only time I'll be able to get away with it.

I reach over with my free hand and flick the lights on.

And then I make a show of sighing in exasperation at the man calmly sitting cross-legged in my favorite chair, lowering my handgun, and rolling my eyes. "Don't do that. I could've killed you."

"You knew it was me even before it crossed your mind to pull that gun." Mycroft sighs right back. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you on. You always seem to like putting me in unnecessary risk."

"And yet you still sneak into my safehouse." I feel the need to point out. "And harass me at my day job. And bulldoze my diner."

"That only happened once."

I saunter over with that particular stride that I know immediately puts him on edge. "Me pointing guns at you in the dark is nothing personal."

Anthea affectionately calls it my 'angry panther walk'. And with good reason.

I only use it when I know I'm going to get something done. I lean down, hands supporting myself on the armrests of Mycroft's chair, quite effectively cornering him.

"You bulldozed my diner on purpose."

Mycroft closed the distance, leaning upward just a little and kissing me. "Once." he repeated smugly.

You may have thought that my life was a quaint, boring little life. I am here to tell you that people sometimes are not what they seem. And I am one of those cases.

Now, you may wonder how things came to be this way.

Well, I'll tell you. Our story actually starts quite a bit earlier, you see...

Cue rewind...


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Quite a bit earlier...

"Um, excuse me." Twenty-nine year old Sherlock Holmes raised his head heavily to see a man standing over him, silver hair glinting, cigarette poking out of his mouth, umbrella slung over his shoulder to shield him from the rain.

Unlike Mycroft's funeral black umbrellas, this man's was a bright sky blue.

"What?" Sherlock croaked, shifting himself stiffly, feeling his cold joints protest the movement. This was one of the more common things that could happen when one spends the night outside in a cold alley during a shower.

He'd be lucky if he didn't have hypothermia.

"Are you okay?" the man asked, squatting down to level himself with Sherlock, who was sitting sprawled on the cold ground, lying against a wall. "Are you drunk? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Sherlock simply turned his arm over to show the man his scarred inner elbow. "I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"Hmm." the man hummed solemnly, staring at the damage.

Usually, this would be the moment most would huff in disgust and self-righteousness and walk away.

"Well, you can't just stay there." the man said instead. "You want to come in and get dry?"

Sherlock rubbed an eye and stared at him blearily. "What?"

"I kinda need that space your sitting in." the man replied. "You're sitting in my garbage spot and I need to take out the empty cardboard boxes, see? Tell you what, you move from there into the store and I'll make us some breakfast before opening, how does that sound?" He held out his hand. "Deal?"

Sherlock looked at the hand, to the man offering it, and back.

Then, he took it.

That was his first meeting with Gregory Lestrade.

"I'm Greg Lestrade, by the way." Lestrade introduced himself as he easily pulled Sherlock to his feet by the hand he shook. "I work here." He jabbed a thumb toward the store Sherlock was sitting behind. "The Strangers Cafe."

"Sherlock." Sherlock replied. "Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade smiled a little, eyebrow twitching. "I'll try my best not to judge."

"Speak for yourself,_ Lestrade._"

Lestrade laughed and led Sherlock through a back door to the small kitchen.

"There's a laundry machine over there." Lestrade pointed. "Just stuff your clothes in there, I'll get you a towel and some clothes. You can shower upstairs."

"Is that okay?" Sherlock asked him dubiously as he watched Lestrade bustle around looking for towels.

"Oh it's fine!" Lestrade grinned. "My flatmate and I live up there. But you might not want to flaunt your addictions around with her because she's a cop."

"Wonderful." Sherlock sighed, taking the towel offered to him and disappearing into the bathroom, tossing out his drenched clothes a minute later.

He got out of the shower and dried off just as Lestrade returned with a change of clothes.

"Okay, these should fit you." Lestrade said slowly, eyes glancing Sherlock from head to toe, vaguely measuring him. "I never wear these clothes because they're too big for me." he said, handing him a pair of sweats.

Just at that moment, Donovan staggered out of her room, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

Everybody froze.

"Caught you!" Donovan suddenly shouted, pointing a triumphant finger at Lestrade.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes. "Sorry Donovan but, as damning as this situation seems to be, this doesn't actually prove I'm gay. I met this guy like ten minutes ago."

"Ha! You're a bit quick, aren't you?" Donovan smirked, elbowing him.

"Very funny." Lestrade grumbled. "This'll teach me not to watch chick flicks with you. Sherlock, put on some clothes. Donovan, shut up or I'll not make you any coffee."

Donovan mimed zipping her mouth shut but she was smiling.

"Seriously though." Sherlock made a hasty retreat but he could hear them talking through the closed door. "I found him outside. He was drenched, I couldn't just leave him there. He'd probably die from the cold."

"What have I told you about picking up strays?" Donovan sighed.

"He's not a stray. He's staying for breakfast, then I'm sending him home."

"With a letter to his mum to keep him in bed until his health clears?" Donovan teased. "But seriously, he's attractive! And you haven't gotten any action for a while."

"Oh, for the love of God!" Lestrade groaned. "What business is it of yours?"

"I just want you to settle down with a nice girl and be happy." Donovan mimicked the nasally tone of a doting mother. "Or - well - nice _boy_, whichever way you end up swinging."

"But Mum!" Lestrade protested. "I'm going to get cooties!"

"Doesn't count if he's a boy." Donovan pointed out.

"Well I'm very well going to get_ boy_ cooties, then." Lestrade responded stubbornly.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped out, causing the two bickering flatmates to jump guiltily. "Am I interrupting?" he asked archly, absently tugging at the long-sleeved shirt Lestrade gave him.

"Nope, I was just waiting for the bathroom." Donovan lied cheerfully, brushing past him.

"Don't mind her." Lestrade advised. "She's all rubbish, anyway."

"I heard that!" Donovan hollered through the closed door.

Lestrade stuck his tongue out in reply despite not being visible to Donovan. Then, he turned back to Sherlock. "Anyway, come on down. I've got coffee brewing, and toast if you're interested."

Sherlock was then promptly settled down at a table as Lestrade bustled about preparing the diner for opening time. Ten minutes later, Donovan sauntered in and demanded food which Lestrade grudgingly supplied.

Sherlock watched them silently as they bantered back and forth throughout breakfast.

"So." He startled when the conversation suddenly turned in his direction. "Your name is Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan smiled.

Sherlock took a glance around and noticed that Lestrade was out of the store taking out the trash like he had been attempting when he stumbled across Sherlock.

"Yes." he replied belatedly.

"Are you an addict?" Donovan asked bluntly.

Sherlock, who was just sipping his coffee, dropped his cup. He recovered quickly and righted his mug, mopping up his mess with a napkin. "What's it to you?" he snapped.

"Nothing." Donovan shrugged, then, dropped all facade of friendliness. "Honestly, I couldn't care less about your habits while I'm off duty. I'm a copper, see, and I know the signs of an addiction... and I saw your arm when Lestrade was giving you clothes."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be making a big deal about something you so say 'couldn't care less' about." Sherlock snarled.

"Greg's my friend." Donovan snapped back. "And he'll deny it till Doomsday, but he actually_ does_ run a charity here. But judging by the clothes drying out back, you're not one of his usual homeless cases. And, believe me, I've seen dozens of wash-ups like you drift in and out causing trouble for him and if you think you're going to get away with it because you're rich, then think again. Because if I sense even a hint of you trying to take advantage of him, I'll deal with you myself. Are we clear?"

Sherlock stared at her. "I didn't ask him to drag me in here."

"You didn't ask him _not_ to." Donovan shot back. "Just don't make trouble for him, and I won't make trouble for you."

"I don't intend to stick around." Sherlock shrugged.

"That's fine with me."

Just then, they heard the door open and close and Lestrade walked back in. One step into the room and he could feel the tense atmosphere. He paused. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked suspiciously.

Donovan leaned back into her seat and resumed sipping coffee serenely. "Nope."

Sherlock got up. "I was just leaving." he told Lestrade.

"Oh, okay." Lestrade said slowly, not believing for a moment that nothing transpired in his absence. "Your clothes should be dry-...ish. Do you want me to call you a cab?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock responded stiffly and stuffed his hand into his pocket for spare change when he remembered he wasn't wearing his own pants.

"No charge." Lestrade smiled warmly.

Sherlock glanced at Donovan. Donovan mouthed back 'charity'.

"Much obliged." Sherlock responded and hurriedly disappeared into the bathroom to change.

"See you!" Lestrade waved at his retreating back as he left the diner.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"You know..." Lestrade said a few weeks later, raising an eyebrow at the young man sprawled on the ground. "We should probably stop meeting like this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes up at him scathingly. "An extraordinary observation, have you considered a career in the Yard?"

"Don't think I commit that many crimes." Lestrade responded.

Sherlock snorted.

There was a syringe on the ground next to Sherlock but thankfully the contents were beginning to spill out of a silvery crack that had been created when the two men collided, sending Sherlock falling on his arse.

"You know that's bad for you." Lestrade commented idly, nodding at the syringe.

"Doesn't everybody tell you the same thing about your smoking habit?" Sherlock sneered, sniffing.

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't smoke_ that_ much."

Sherlock stood up, dusting himself off, and sniffed a second time. "I'd venture to say at least a carton a day and if that's not bad, I don't know what is."

"Hey, I'm still weaning off them!" Lestrade complained.

"Which only implies that you used to smoke_ more_." Sherlock scoffed. "Congratulations. You're going to die from lung cancer."

"At least I'm trying to stop." the older man grumbled.

"_I_ don't have the same conviction." Sherlock shrugged bluntly. "What are you doing down here, anyway?"

"I was just in the neighborhood." Lestrade shrugged.

Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and looked around pointedly. They were in one of those darker neighborhoods that most wouldn't want to find themselves alone in at night.

"_So?_" Lestrade asked, slightly defensive.

Sherlock sniffed a third time. "Tomato sauce." he declared. "I thought it was just the smell of your diner seeped into your clothes but no, there's tomato sauce in your bag. A touch too much garlic, though. Pasta, then. Donovan told me you were a hopeless man with some serious bleeding heart tendencies."

"Oh, Donovan and her big mouth...!" Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Sherlock just sighed down at the broken syringe as if terribly disappointed in its failure. "Well, there goes my evening."

"And good riddance." Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Hey, you want to stop by, if you've got no other plans?" he asked, louder.

"I'm afraid Donovan's going to bite my head off if I do." Sherlock remarked.

"Don't worry about her, she's like that to everybody." Lestrade waved his worries off. "And don't worry, she's on duty right now. Me and a few lads are going to get together for some drinks. You coming?"

"Is that an event you would usually invite perfect strangers along to?" Sherlock asked him dubiously.

"My diner_ does_ go by the name 'The Strangers Cafe'." Lestrade shrugged. "Should I expect you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I have an appointment at the morgue tonight."

"Oh..." Lestrade's face fell. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked confused. "Why?"

This cause Lestrade to also become quite bewildered. "Why wouldn't I be?"

A brief moment of silence...

"Oh! No!" Sherlock exclaimed with a sharp rebuffing movement. "I meant I was meeting one of the pathologists to run some experiments."

"Oh." Lestrade looked a little embarrassed. "Right. So, you're some sort of doctor, are you?"

"I'm a bit of everything, really." Sherlock shrugged. "A jack-of-all-trades."

"And a master of a few of them, I hope." Lestrade smiled.

Sherlock looked at him loftily. "A master of_ all_ of them, I reckon." he replied.

"Humble, aren't you."

Sherlock just smirked. "Well then, I should be going."

"Me too." Lestrade nodded and walked off.

* * *

"Brother." A man in a three-piece suit and a black umbrella hung over his elbow stood in the doorway.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. "Mycroft." he huffed. "Someone tried to extend their condolences when I mentioned I'd be at the morgue. I should only be so lucky were that the case."

Mycroft snorted back. "You break my heart." he said dryly. "I need you on a case."

"My mind should be pleasantly euphoric right now, but it isn't. I have no patience to deal with you." Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft just looked mildly surprised. "Turning over a new leaf, brother?"

"I dropped my syringe." Sherlock snapped back.

"Clumsy, Sherlock?" Mycroft huffed bitterly. "Or just desperate?"

"A collision, actually." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And it's no business of yours."

"I suppose I should be grateful for this happy accident." Mycroft sighed and pulled out a file. "Everything you need to know is in there."

"I won't touch it." Sherlock told him stubbornly.

"As you said yourself, you didn't get your fix." Mycroft pointed out rationally as he strolled over and dropped the file on the table by Sherlock's hand.

Then, he paused, looked mildly confused, and sniffed the air.

"Sherlock, you smell like tomatoes and I can only dream of you eating without being force fed." he said. "Did you fall into a grocer's cart?"

"That's no business of yours." Sherlock repeated. He delicately pinched the front cover of the file like it was something horrid and lifted it open slightly. "I'm looking at the case, see? Happy? Now leave!"

Mycroft merely shrugged and walked out.

* * *

As Mycroft was leaving his brother in the morgue, his sharp sense of smell caught whiff of the same fresh, slightly fruit-acidic scent his brother had.

"Molly!"

Mycroft slowed to a halt and peered down the hall where he had heard voices.

"Overworking isn't good for you, you know?" Lestrade said scoldingly. "I hope you haven't been on that diet of fish-and-chips again! I brought you proper food." Out of his messenger bag, he pulled out a canteen of tea and a few wrapped sandwiches. "Hydrate, and - um - susten-ate."

"I really shouldn't trouble you..." Molly insisted weakly, blushing a little, but thankful nonetheless.

"No problem, your mum really worries, you know?" Lestrade told her. "I wouldn't come all the way unless her worrying about you worries me. Take a look at the clock sometimes, don't just eat when you're hungry."

The young pathologist looked suitably scolded. "I was busy today..." she whined a little, but dug in to her food.

"Excuses." Lestrade chuckled. "Hey, you coming over for drinks tonight with everybody? Donovan won't be there, but Finn and Gary will be there. You know them? Mrs. Turner's boys."

"Um, I'm still stuck doing something." Molly sighed. "Doing a bit of a side project."

"Sounds exciting." Lestrade nodded. "But don't overdo it."

"See you." Molly waved as Lestrade walked out.

"Bye!" Lestrade waved back as he brushed by Mycroft. "Sorry, mate. Didn't see you there."

"Oh, it's no problem." Mycroft responded coolly.

Lestrade just grinned and went on his way.

Mycroft got into his car a few moment's later and frowned.

Anthea took notice. "Is something the matter, Sir?" she asked.

"Nothing." Mycroft sighed. "It's nothing. Just... everybody smells like fresh tomatoes today."

He didn't say anything about Anthea surreptitiously sniffing her own scent of delicate white musk. That would be awkward.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"You're too nice to everybody." Donovan decided one day as she and Lestrade sprawled halfway over each other on the couch watching TV in their pyjamas and sharing a bag of chips like a pair of teenagers. "That's why you don't get any dates. All the girls think you're dating someone else."

Lestrade could only shift his leg from under hers in an attempt at a kick only because his hand was holding a cigarette. "They probably think I'm dating _you_. I _live_ with you." he grumbled.

"Yup, they don't love you like I do." Donovan nodded sagely.

Lestrade kicked again. "Get up, I'm going to make some coffee, you want?"

"I want!" Donovan exclaimed eagerly like a child.

Lestrade scoffed as he disentangled himself from her, extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and walked into their second floor kitchenette. "You are such a kid on your days off."

"I just want to stay in my pyjamas all day and roll around like a lazy arse until bedtime." Donovan raised her hand in a lazy 'peace' sign.

"You're so weird." Lestrade laughed, then happened to glance out of their small kitchen window.

He stopped and stared.

"Um, Donovan." he began. "Hold the thought. You might want to get changed."

"Why?" Donovan whined.

"I think someone's trying to steal Mr. Bunter's laundry." Lestrade looked at her, completely deadpan.

Donovan dashed over. "Mr. Bunter is the bloke two houses down?" she asked, pushing him aside and peering out of the window.

Sure enough, someone was scaling the water pipe to the second floor porch where Mr. Bunter's laundry was hanging out to dry.

"What the bloody Hell?" Donovan cursed under her breath and dashed off to change.

Lestrade, who's sleepwear was loose drawstring pants and a T-shirt, simply stuffed his feet into some shoes, and jogged across the street to the house in question.

He stood under it and looked up. "Um, excuse me?"

The would-be thief paused his climbing and looked down. "What?" he hissed.

"Holy shit, Sherlock?" Lestrade gaped.

"Hello, Lestrade." Sherlock responded casually, panting slightly from the exertion of climbing up the water pipe.

"What the Hell are you doing?" Lestrade asked him sharply.

"I need to take a look at Mr. Bunter's shoes." Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

"You need a what?"

Donovan finally caught up to them. "You need to get down here right now, is what you need to do!" she shrieked.

"Just a moment." Sherlock said. "This is a matter of life and death, you see?"

"How...?" Donovan threw her hands up. "You know what? I don't care. I'm going to call for someone to bring a car around, you're coming down to the station with me!"

"First off, why don't we tell Mr. Bunter someone's trying to break into his flat?" Lestrade suggested calmly.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "Mr. Bunter's been in a holding cell down at the Yard for the last four hours."

"How was_ I_ supposed to know that?" Lestrade frowned up at him. "Do I look like a cop to you?"

"No, but_ she_ is." Sherlock nodded his head in Donovan's direction.

"You said it was a matter of life and death?" Donovan asked.

"Yes, see I was hired by Mr. Bunter." Sherlock told them as he continued his upward ascent. "He was caught up in a murder case. The police think he committed a murder he didn't commit and the evidence of his innocence happens to be on the bottom of his shoes in the form of mud. If I get those shoes, I can prove he wasn't at the crime scene at the time of the crime. He's lucky it rained."

"I'll get the police on it." Donovan called out. "Get down, you git."

"I told them they were missing a vital piece of evidence." Sherlock complained as he disappeared over the edge of the porch momentarily before poking his head back over with a pair of sodden sneakers in hand. "The idiot in charge didn't believe me."

Lestrade looked from Donovan to Sherlock. "Which idiot?"

"Some detective inspector named Dimmock." Sherlock told them, bagging the shoes.

Donovan let out a noise of disapproval. "That's my governor you're talking about!"

"He's a fool." Sherlock told her.

"You...!" Donovan seethed, then she yelped when Sherlock dropped the bagged evidence down at them. "Hey! Watch it!"

But Sherlock was already climbing back down the way he had gotten up.

"Oh yeah, because that's not dangerous at all." Lestrade said dryly. "You know that water pipe is older than Methuselah?"

Suddenly, there was a creaking noise of rusty metal bending and suddenly Sherlock came raining down on them.

Lestrade just managed to step forward and stretch out his arms fast enough to break his fall and both were sent crashing to the hard ground.

Both men yelled in pain.

Sherlock rolled off Lestrade, groaning and clutching his left shin. "Cheers, Lestrade." he grumbled through gritted teeth.

Lestrade cradled the arm that had been pinned under Sherlock's weight. "If I'd known it would happen, I wouldn't have said it."

"Both of you are idiots!" Donovan yelled, already snapping out short, curt phrases on her phone. "Are you two okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock replied quickly. Too quickly.

"I'll live." Lestrade ground out.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "_Boys._" she sighed, exasperated. "I'm calling an ambulance."

* * *

"_Well_, this has been an experience." Lestrade deadpanned as he sat on a hospital bench, his arm in a sling. He was still in his pyjamas.

Sherlock, who was sitting on the other end of the bench with his foot in a cast, grunted.

"This has actually never happened to me before." Lestrade continued. "This is weird."

Sherlock grunted again.

"Sherlock?" a voice called out and both men turned. A fleshy man with glasses stood a short ways down the hall looking flustered. "Getting into trouble again?"

"Mike." Sherlock nodded curtly.

"I was just visiting a colleague when I thought I saw someone familiar." Stamford smiled sympathetically, then, he belatedly noticed Lestrade almost hidden from view behind Sherlock's towering frame. "Oh, hi there."

"Hi, I'm Sherlock's accident-mate." Lestrade extended his non-sprained hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"Mike Stamford." Stamford introduced himself and took his hand, shaking it. "What happened?"

"This idiot climbed up a water pipe." Lestrade said, pointing at Sherlock. "And then he fell down."

"You jinxed me." Sherlock retorted, crossing his arms.

Lestrade moved to cross his own arms, remembered his sling, and instead crossed his legs. He grinned cheekily at Sherlock, Sherlock glared back. "It's all in your head. Jinxes don't actually work."

"They do, if done correctly." Stamford and Lestrade jumped at the new voice.

"_Mycroft!_ What are you doing here?" Sherlock groaned.

"Come to pick you up, brother dear." Mycroft replied smugly. "I am your next of kin, after all. Really now, at your age and still needing to be bailed out of trouble."

"I can take care of myself." Sherlock snapped.

"The legal system thinks otherwise." Mycroft responded coolly.

"It thinks what you want it to." Sherlock seethed.

"Wait, you have a_ brother?_" Stamford asked. "You never told me that."

"There are many things Sherlock doesn't flaunt." Mycroft smiled at him politely. "I am at the very top of that list. We do not get along." He held out a hand almost primly. "Mycroft Holmes, and you must be Mike Stamford."

"Uh, yeah." Stamford stammered, shaking his hand.

Mycroft turned his icy gaze on Lestrade. He stopped still, taking in Lestrade's sleepwear. "And you are?"

"Greg Lestrade." Lestrade shook his hand as well and smiled. "I discovered your brother in my garbage spot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh... how very..." Mycroft blinked, momentarily at a loss for words at Lestrade's frankness. "Well, I hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"Not that time, no." Lestrade shrugged with a smile.

Mycroft smiled and released his hand, inhaling softly. Then, he turned and raised his eyebrow at Sherlock. "Tomatoes." he murmured under his breath.

"None of your business." Sherlock hissed back quietly.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing." Mycroft smiled politely. "I'm afraid my brother has inconvenienced you both dearly. Thank you for bringing him in. Mister Lestrade, I pray for a speedy recovery." He nodded at them. "Good day."

Then he turned and walked off, Sherlock trailing reluctantly behind him.

Lestrade wrinkled his nose a little and looked at Stamford. "Do I smell like tomatoes?" he asked self-consciously.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The Strangers Cafe was closed that day.

This was not unusual, considering the fact that its sole owner/chef/waiter was down to one functioning hand.

Lestrade sat slouched over a table in the empty diner, head resting on its cool surface, cheek smashed against the wood in a show of exaggerated misery.

Donovan placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of his face so close he could feel heat radiating off the glass. "Don't be like that." the cop admonished as she sat down beside him.

"I want to die..." Lestrade moaned dramatically. "I have only one reason to live in life and I can't do anything about it because I can't use both hands. I will die, Sally, I will die of boredom."

"Drink some coffee." Donovan suggested. "You'll feel better."

Lestrade reluctantly peeled his face off the table and cradled his drink. "Okay."

"I'm going to work in a few minutes, but when I get back we'll watch a movie or something, promise." Donovan patted his shoulder. "I'll even get some ice cream or something on the way back."

"You're the best." Lestrade mumbled back, batting her hand away good-naturedly.

"Sure you don't want painkillers, or something?"

"I'm fine!"

"Okay, but I'm leaving a few around, just in case." Donovan waved as she left. "And you better not die of boredom while I'm gone because I'm not sitting through Indiana Jones by myself, okay?"

"Okay!" Lestrade shouted back, brightening a little at the prospect of watching Indiana Jones when his friend got back from work.

He sat drinking his coffee and smoking for a few minutes when he heard a light tapping on the front door of the diner.

"We're not open today!" he called out apologetically as he got up and shuffled his feet to the door, opening it. "Oh hi, Mrs. Hathaway, come for breakfast? Sorry, I've got a bad hand today." He lifted the offending appendage for inspection.

Mrs. Hathaway clicked her tongue sympathetically. "Thought it might be like this so I stopped by the lovely Mister Kendrick's bread store on the way over." She held up a bag of mouth-watering breads and pastries.

"Oh, you shouldn't have." Lestrade smiled at the little lady's thoughtfulness.

"Don't be silly." Mrs. Hathaway slapped his good arm and gestured for him to get plates. "I thought it might be a good time to return the favor."

A pretty young lady poked her head through the still open door. "Are you open?" she asked quietly. "I didn't see the lights on."

"No, we're closed for the day." Lestrade told her apologetically. "Well,_ I'm_ closed for the day." He held up his bad hand.

"Oh, okay." The lady nodded. "Sorry."

"No, no, come back again next time!" Lestrade smiled in a friendly manner. The lady nodded and disappeared.

"Well,_ I_ certainly hope she'll come back." Mrs. Hathaway smiled, raising an eyebrow hopefully.

"Mrs. Hathaway!" Lestrade protested, growing a little pinker around the cheeks.

"She's pretty!" Mrs. Hathaway said laughingly.

"She's-..." Lestrade made vague motions in the air with his good hand before ultimately giving up and sagging. "Yeah, she was pretty, wasn't she?"

* * *

"No." Donovan growled.

"I can at least hold a spatula." Lestrade grumbled back.

"You may be able to, but that doesn't mean you will." Donovan retorted as she wrangled the pan and cooking spatula away from her friend.

"Eating microwave meals three times a day can't be healthy." Lestrade pointed out reasonably.

"I'll cook you an egg." Donovan sighed. "But it has to be scrambled, and both eggshells and burned bits must be forgiven."

"Alright."

* * *

"I can move my hand!" Lestrade thrust both hands toward the sky dramatically. "Freedom!"

Molly giggled a little at him. "Don't exaggerate."

"You're a lifesaver, Molly." Lestrade grinned. "I thought I was going to go crazy without anything to do."

"I only took off the bandages." Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear shyly.

"Just take the gratitude." Lestrade growled without malice.

"Okay."

"Hey, wanna be my first customer since healing?" Lestrade suggested.

"I guess. I'm getting off work early today."

"Great. You can bring Sherlock, I think I saw him upstairs." Lestrade proposed. "I was about to go talk to him but he hissed at me like a rabid cat. Do cat's get rabid?"

"Cats do actually get rabies." Molly told him. "But that's not really my area of expertise."

"Right, right."

"I'll ask Sherlock if he can come by, but I can't promise anything." Molly told him. "He's been caught up in some murder case."

Lestrade perked up at that. "Oh, really?"

Molly caught on to his interest. "Oh yeah, I forget you almost became a cop."

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't think the world was ready for me." he joked, gesturing to himself.

Molly laughed. "I think you would have become a great policeman."

"Thanks." Lestrade shrugged bashfully. "Hey, you happen to know what Sherlock is doing on the case? He said he was something of a doctor, or some sort of specialist."

"He's a private investigator, of sorts." Molly shrugged. "He said he was a 'consulting detective'."

"And what the Hell is that?" Lestrade asked her curiously.

"It means he consults the police on difficult cases." Molly explained briefly. "At least, I think that's what he said."

"Okay, then." Lestrade sighed. "And what's the case he's on?"

"A triple murder-suicide." Molly replied absently, then immediately covered her mouth. "I don't think I was supposed to tell you that. The police said the information wasn't available to the public yet. Because they'd go crazy over a serial murder-suicide."

"Okay, mums the word, and all." Lestrade smiled sympathetically. "I understand."

Molly smiled back. "I'll come by later, see if Sherlock will come."

"You do that."

* * *

Lestrade's face broke out into a smile when the door opened. "Hey! Didn't think you'd actually show up!"

Sherlock scowled as he sauntered into the diner and dramatically threw himself into a chair. "My brother has set the dogs on me and I don't want them following me home." he grumbled.

"How rude." An attractive brunette remarked coolly, not lifting her eyes from her phone.

Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. Lestrade scrunched up his nose and wracked his brain to remember where he saw her.

"She's just doing her job, Freak." Donovan snapped as she dragged herself through the doors, wet shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. "Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Donovan." Lestrade greeted back, and then looked down. "What the Hell happened to you?"

"I fell into a ditch." Donovan rolled her eyes.

Lestrade burst out laughing. "How?"

"I tackled a suspect." Donovan shrugged. "Stuff happened. Anyway, I need to change... and shower. Save some dinner for me."

"You got it." Lestrade snickered down at the trail of moisture Donovan was leaving as she walked across the room. "You're cleaning up after yourself, won't you?"

"Of course." Donovan snorted. "I don't have the heart to make the poor injured man do it."

Lestrade dramatically clutched his arm. "It only hurts when it rains." he sighed sadly. Then, he turned to Sherlock. "How is your leg, by the way?"

"Horrible." Sherlock grunted. "Mycroft has taken it as an excuse to have his minions invade my life. It's a nuisance."

"Aw, shame. What'll we be having tonight?" Lestrade asked them all.

Sherlock shrugged. "Doesn't matter, I probably won't be eating."

Lestrade looked at him. "What?"

"It tampers with my brain's functions."

"It what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leveled him a scornful look. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then explain." Lestrade responded calmly. "Such a clever man like you, it should be easy."

"I'm in the middle of solving a case. I need all my faculties directed toward my brain. My body doesn't have the time or patience to digest." Sherlock enunciated slowly and clearly as if speaking to an exceptionally dull child.

Lestrade's eyebrow twitched. Well then... two can play at that game. He plastered on a wide smile. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" He cooed exaggeratedly, patting Sherlock's head, much to the younger man's horror. He recoiled violently and slapped Lestrade's hand away.

Molly covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"Sorry, where are my manners." Lestrade turned to the brunette. "I'm Greg, and you are...?"

The woman contemplated for a moment too long. "Anthea." She replied.

"... And who are you when you're at home?" Lestrade asked.

A mysterious smile. "Still just me." she replied vaguely.

"Give up, Lestrade, she's one of Mycroft's best." Sherlock groaned. "She is just as much a meddler as he is. He's taught her well."

Anthea glanced up from her phone for a split second to send the young man a wry look. "Thanks... I think, for the _kind-of-_compliment you didn't mean to give. It was _almost_ nice of you." she drawled.

Lestrade laughed. "Anyway, I'm hungry, what'll we eat?"

"Something easy to make." Donovan threw in, sauntering into the room with a towel draped over her head. "Don't want you over doing it."

Lestrade made a show of pouting. "_You_ help if you don't want me killing myself."

Donovan lifted her hands in an abortive move. "Nope, I'm just going to sit over here and watch the train crash."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence." Lestrade drawled.

"You're welcome."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Two hours and five pizzas later, Lestrade scratched his head and sighed in exasperation. "I just can't put my finger on it."

Donovan looked over. "Can't put your finger on what?"

Lestrade jabbed his thumb over in Anthea's direction. "I can't remember where I saw her face. It's familiar, but I don't know why."

Anthea looked up with a 'who me?' expression.

"Probably Mycroft spying on you." Sherlock drawled around a picky nibble of pizza after being coerced into eating. "You spotted her out, good for you."

"Why would your brother spy on me?" Lestrade asked, confused. "I have a guard dog."

"That's not the question you should be asking!" Donovan snapped back, slapping him upside the head good-naturedly. "And I'm not your guard dog."

"No." Lestrade responded soberly. "You boss me around relentlessly. You're more like a cat."

That earned him a hard pinch.

"But seriously, can we get back to the part where we were talking about you being stalked?" Donovan asked. "Because, that's a legitimate problem with you."

"Is not." Lestrade scoffed.

Donovan just gave him an incredulous look and fondly patted his shoulder. "Stay innocent."

"Back to your brother." Lestrade prompted pointedly, looking at Sherlock.

"He's a menace to society, a fat, lazy bastard, and paranoid, to top it off." Sherlock scowled. "He is also the British Government."

"Don't forget to mention that he's also my boss." Anthea put in coolly.

Lestrade and Donovan swallowed hard down on their suddenly dry throats. "Sorry."

Anthea just smiled back in a way that you couldn't tell whether she meant 'that's okay' or 'I'm going to kill you'.

Lestrade sudden slapped his knee, causing Molly to jump. "Oh!"

"Oh my God!" Molly squeaked. "What?"

"You came here before!" Lestrade grinned. "That's when I saw you."

"See?" Sherlock huffed. "Spying."

"Except, I was closed because of my hand." Lestrade went on sheepishly.

"Actually, I wasn't spying." Anthea said to Sherlock. "I actually just needed to eat."

"Quite a suspicious coincidence." Donovan grumbled.

"So is the fact that Mister Lestrade knows the Detective Sergeant working directly under the only Detective Inspector in London who has had experience working with Sherlock, he knows the pathologist, and also the landlady." Anthea pointed out.

Silence.

Lestrade made a face. "You must be the new tenant Mrs. Hudson took on." he realized, looking at Sherlock.

"As of yesterday." Sherlock looked suspicious. "Word travels fast. How did you hear of it so quickly? Do you work for Mycroft?"

"Yes, and you... falling asleep in my garbage was planned as well." Lestrade responded sarcastically.

"But you have to admit." Molly piped in, popping an olive into her mouth. "It's a strange coincidence that Lestrade knows everybody."

Everybody seemed to suspect something different, but nobody said anything.

"Anyway, I should be off." Molly sighed sadly, brushing a few crumbs off her lap. "Thanks for having me over."

Donovan and Lestrade waved. "Our pleasure." Lestrade said. "Be safe."

"I will." Molly called back as she left.

"I guess I've been here long enough." Anthea said, checking the time on her phone.

"Giving up?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

Anthea sent him a blank look. "I do, in fact, clock out sometimes. I don't work 24/7."

"Really? I thought you were a government-funded android." Sherlock smirked.

Anthea opened her mouth, but paused, no doubt stopping herself from a rude retort. "Nevermind."

Both Donovan and Lestrade snorted, Sherlock just blinked.

"Anyway." Lestrade chuckled. "It was good to have you both over, come again sometime... you know, when I'm actually open." He made a vague gesture around the diner.

"Sure." Anthea replied. Sherlock shrugged.

"Bye!"

* * *

Meanwhile, somewhere in a dimly lit office, Mycroft Holmes pored over a thin file of one, Gregory Lestrade.

"Sir?" There was a gentle knock on the door.

Mycroft stuffed the file into his desk drawer and straightened in his seat. "Enter."

"We just received contact from Ms. Anthea." A smartly groomed man named David announced, entering the room. "It seems that your brother has visited a..." He briefly consulted a pad he held in the crook of his elbow. "A 'Gregory Lestrade', for a meeting with friends."

"'Friends'?" Mycroft questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Mister Lestrade's friends and Sherlock's acquaintances coincidentally overlap, Sir." David responded crisply.

"How... suspicious." Mycroft mused to himself.

"Indeed, Sir."

The two remained in silence for a moment or two.

Finally, Mycroft stood up. "Very well, it seems that I must meet this man." He sighed and smoothed out his suit jacket. "You will drive me to this 'Strangers Cafe' tomorrow."

His subordinate nodded. "Very well, Sir."

* * *

The next day was slow in the Strangers Cafe, and yet Lestrade was glad that Donovan had a day off work today.

"You should be glad." Donovan grumbled as she scrubbed the bottom of a pot in the kitchen sink.

"I would've died without you." Lestrade proclaimed exaggeratedly as he dumped another load of dishes into the sink for her. "But, I think that's it for today. I'm going to close up shop. You go on ahead, I can finish here."

"You sure?" Donovan asked him.

Lestrade level her a stern look. "Go! I can wash dishes."

Donovan shrugged. "Sorry for worrying."

"Mother hen." Lestrade accused good-naturedly.

"Stubborn brat." Donovan shot right back, but dried her hands on a towel and strolled off.

Lestrade snorted at her retreating back and then returned to the dining room to clear the rest of the dishes and lock up.

"Forgive the lateness of my visit, but do you have time for one more patron?" Lestrade jumped at the voice, nearly dropping the dishes in his hands.

He turned to see Mycroft standing by the door. "Oh, uh, sure." he replied uneasily, a little irked at being caught so off-guard. "What'll it be?"

Mycroft contemplated that for a moment. "A coffee, please." he decided.

"Coffee coming right up." Lestrade nodded and shuffled off behind the bar. "Hey." he called as he turned on the coffee machine. "You're Sherlock's brother, aren't you?"

"As unfortunate as it is for the both of us, I am." Mycroft sighed deprecatingly as he leaned on the bar.

"Can I ask why you always say that as a bad thing?" Lestrade asked as he rummaged around in the cupboards for some coffee that wasn't the horrible instant stuff that Donovan and he had been surviving on since his injury.

Mycroft shrugged. "We simply do not get along." he replied. "And we see no need to torture ourselves more by trying to."

"Fair enough." Lestrade snorted. "How do you like your coffee?"

"I do not have many preferences when it comes to coffee." Mycroft said, shrugging. "Surprise me."

"Ohh, I hate it when people say that." Lestrade groaned, but began foaming milk, anyway.

"Surprising." Mycroft chuckled. "You seem like the sort of man who welcomes the challenge."

"Oh I enjoy guessing a person's preference alright." Lestrade responded. "But I'm no psychic."

"You strike me as being an avid people watcher." Mycroft said. "How wrong have you been?"

"Hm..." Lestrade grimaced. "I once ground nuts onto an allergic's frappuccino. That was pretty bad."

"Should've seen that one coming." Mycroft sighed. "Some people..."

"It's said that a person's coffee says alot about them." Lestrade remarked dryly. "But only as much as our astrological signs."

"People are their own person." Mycroft hummed back thoughtfully.

"Yes, they are." Lestrade grinned back and handed him a frothy mug of coffee.

Mycroft took a sip and hummed appreciatively. "That's quite excellent." he remarked. "Could use a sprinkle of vanilla."

"Vanilla?" Lestrade repeated, handing him a shaker of powdered vanilla. "Didn't expect that."

"I usually take mine black." Mycroft informed him. "But I'm not working at the moment."

"Oh good." Lestrade smiled. "Speaking of which, Sherlock said you were the British government."

Mycroft choked on his coffee. "Lies. All of it." he spluttered.

Lestrade calmly handed him a napkin.

"Thank you." Mycroft said, dabbing at his mouth. "And Sherlock always says that, it would do you good not to listen to him. He is such a troublesome boy."

"He's hardly a boy." Lestrade scoffed. "He's, what, twenty?"

"Nearly thirty." Mycroft sighed. "But, as they say: you're never too old to be immature."

Lestrade made a mock two-fingered saluting gesture. "Cheers to that."

"But, I didn't actually come here to talk about coffee, or Sherlock." Mycroft said politely. "How are your injuries?"

"Good." Lestrade smiled awkwardly. "It's all fine. Good enough to open shop again. Your... uh, that lady - Anthea - I didn't really catch what your relationship with her is, other than she works with you, she came around for lunch today."

"Did she?" Mycroft feigned hurt. "And she didn't invite me."

Lestrade smiled. "So you two are good friends?"

"She is my assistant." Mycroft replied.

"And she assists you with-...?" Lestrade prodded curiously.

"Oh I'm just a boring office worker." Mycroft lied, laughing abashedly. "I work security."

"And that's not important at all." Lestrade laughed.

"But only if you say it like that." Mycroft replied demurely and glanced at his watch. "Oh dear, it seems I must be off."

"Well, I won't keep you." Lestrade smiled, taking the empty mug from Mycroft.

Mycroft left the money for his coffee on the bar. "Well, this has been most enjoyable."

"You're welcome to come again sometime." Lestrade said.

"Perhaps I will."

And with that, Mycroft walked out.

David was waiting for him in the car outside with Anthea in the backseat.

"How was your meeting?" Anthea asked crisply, not even looking up from her phone. "Do you find Mister Lestrade's association with Sherlock acceptable?"

Mycroft sighed as he settled into his seat. "You know what?" Anthea looked at him. "I completely forgot to ask him about that."

Anthea raised a dainty eyebrow. "Then, what took you so long?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Coffee."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"I can't believe it!" Donovan raged first thing as she stalked into the flat, childishly picking up and punching an unfortunate couch cushion.

Lestrade wandered out of the bathroom, toothbrush stuck in his cheek. "'at?" he grunted curiously through a mouthful of foam.

Donovan groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch and didn't move.

"...'Onovan..." Lestrade called cautiously, prodding Donovan's leg with his toe.

Donovan's head popped up. "There's this case." she began. "Serial suicide, three of them."

"Odd. And?" Lestrade continued to scrub his teeth now that he knew there was nothing seriously wrong with his flatmate.

"My DI is considering bringing that Holmes in on the case." Donovan raked her fingers through her knotty hair. "I mean, sure, he's been helpful with that last case, and he's offered his skills, but noooo..." She frowned crossly. "Just no. I don't think it's a good idea... at all."

Lestrade just stared at her. Donovan stared back expectantly.

"Well?" the cop spoke up impatiently when the silence stretched on. "Say something, Greg! Console me! I am emotionally compromised, Lestrade!"

Lestrade just raised an eyebrow at her exaggerated theatrics. "Be ri' back." he garbled and ran back into the bathroom. He reemerged a few moments later, sans toothbrush and foamy mouth. "So? You said he was helpful. What's the problem?"

Donovan jabbed a finger at him. "He's only helpful as long as he doesn't talk to anyone... at all."

Lestrade scrunched up his nose as he thought about that. "Well, his communication skills could use a little work..."

Donovan huffed. "'A little'? Try a lot. Nobody down in NSY wants to work with him, not even Dimmock. He just thinks it's a good idea to bring the Freak in before there are more casualties."

Lestrade furrowed his brows. "Sorry - sorry, 'Freak'?"

Donovan sucked in a breath. "He has a human leg in his bathtub." She announced.

Lestrade blinked, but otherwise, didn't react.

"And he beat a corpse in the morgue with a riding crop."

"Well, it takes all kinds." Lestrade responded quickly before Donovan could continue.

"Not to mention that my boss is a complete pushover and the Freak walks all over him." the sergeant continued, seething, beginning to rapid-fire away. "He introduces himself to the team by antagonizing every single one of them, withholds evidence, disregards the chain of command, doesn't cooperate with the police, and in the end gives us the name and description of our killer without explaining why or how he came to that conclusion. What are we supposed to say? 'We're arresting you because some Freak came, sniffed your sleeve, and decided it was you who-dun-it?"

She sucked in a deep breath at the end of her rant.

Lestrade patted her shoulder. "Breathe, Sally. Breathe."

"I mean, he's just egotistic like you wouldn't believe!" Donovan went on. "Yes, he's more observant and he's never been wrong so far, but he rubs our faces in it and expects us to tolerate him, and keep crawling back to him for scraps because he's 'better than us'. And he's just-... ugh!" She pressed her face into the cushion she had been previously torturing, and screamed.

Lestrade simply continued patting her shoulder and didn't say anything, half because he didn't know what to say to her, and because he didn't want to risk saying something wrong and the sergeant's wrath being turned on him.

"This is not something I want to deal with before a press conference." Donovan whimpered. "I _hate_ those!"

"You'll do fine." Lestrade said soothingly.

"If we don't, you can probably see it broadcasted in the news." Donovan muttered. "Everyone and their mums have been tuning into these recent suicides. The last thing we need is a PR nightmare plowing the already running train crash."

"You'll be fine." Lestrade repeated, more firmly this time. "Look. Deep breaths, good night's sleep, the coffee of gods tomorrow morning, you'll be fine. You'll see."

Donovan sighed and practically deflated under his hand. "I need a shower first." she mumbled, defeated.

"Always a good start." Lestrade smiled sympathetically.

"What would I do without you?" Donovan drawled wearily.

"Find someone else to bug." Lestrade shot back cheekily.

Donovan somehow found the strength to kick him.

* * *

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson!" Lestrade called out when he walked through the door.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head out of her flat and smiled at him. "Oh hello, Greg!" she greeted. "I was just about to have a cuppa, why don't you join me?"

"Sounds like a plan." Lestrade grinned.

"You don't have work today?" Mrs. Hudson asked him conversationally.

"That's the good thing about being self-employed." Lestrade winked. "You get to close shop _whenever you feel like it!_"

Mrs. Hudson giggled. "I'll get out another cup for you."

"Alright, just hold on." Lestrade told her. "I just want to pop in on Sherlock. Is he in?"

"Yes, you met him?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"A few times." Lestrade shrugged and jogged up the stairs to the second floor, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind absently.

He knocked on the upstairs flat door thrice sharply. "Special delivery for Sherlock Holmes!" he called out.

The door opened and a shorter, blond-headed man stood in the doorway. "Hello?"

"Oh! Hello there, you must be Sherlock's new flatmate." Lestrade grinned.

"I- I don't..." The man stammered. "Why do you think I'm the flatmate?"

"Clients don't usually open my door unless it's to leave." Sherlock responded from across the sitting room. "Who is it?"

Lestrade poked his head in. "Hey."

"Ah! Lestrade." Sherlock stood up from his seat. "What brings you here?"

"I heard from Donovan that you sabotaged her team's press conference and she's going to kill you." Lestrade responded with a casual shrug. "And Mrs. Hudson was complaining that you don't eat so I made you... stuff." He placed a plastic bag on the coffee table.

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Well, you have to eat it." Lestrade continued, pointing at the bag. "It's a gift."

"Why - why-...?" Sherlock grimaced.

"Because you'd be rude not to." Lestrade sighed and turned to John. "Do you believe this guy?"

"Who-...?" John shook his head. "Sorry. I'm John - John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Greg Lestrade."

They shook hands.

"He_ loves_ telling people how we met." Sherlock scoffed with a sarcastic smile.

"Well it's not everyday you find someone sleeping in your garbage." Lestrade shot back. "So, you're going to move in here?"

"Haven't actually decided, yet." John responded.

Just then, a police vehicle pulled up on the street outside and Donovan stalked into the flat.

"Hey, Donovan." Lestrade raised a hand in greeting.

"Hey Lestrade, what are you doing here?"

"Mrs. Hudson told me that her tenant hasn't eaten in three days, so I just came to see if he was dead, or not." Lestrade shrugged.

"Three days?" John looked incredulously at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged and turned to Donovan. "Fourth suicide?" he asked brusquely. "Where?"

"First of all, can I punch you once?" Donovan seethed back.

"Is this about the texts?" Sherlock asked. "This is about the texts, isn't it?"

"Are-..." John looked from Donovan, to Sherlock, and then to Lestrade. "Should we stop them?"

Lestrade shrugged and made himself comfortable. "I'm not risking getting involved."

"Thanks, Lestrade." Both Sherlock and Donovan responded. One sarcastic, and the other, not.

"Cat, meet dog." Lestrade shrugged.

Just then, Donovan's phone rang. "Sir? Yes. I'm there now... alright, alright!" She hung up and glowered at Sherlock. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. You don't really need to come."

"Nonsense." Sherlock smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Fine." Donovan rolled her eyes. "Right. Come along, then."

"What's so different about this one?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"A note." was all Donovan was willing to divulge. "Come on."

"Not in the police car, I'll be right behind." Sherlock waved her off.

Donovan rolled her eyes, gave a last parting wave to Lestrade, and disappeared.

When the woman detective was gone, John looked felt it safe to ask. "What's wrong with a police car?"

Lestrade let out an abrupt burst of startled laughter before quickly stifling it. Because, Sherlock in a police vehicle...

"Um..."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Have they gone off, then, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Lestrade settled down in her sitting room.

"John and Sherlock?" Lestrade shrugged. "Yeah."

"Running off to see dead bodies like that, it's not healthy." the dotty little lady tutted.

"Well, that's why I'd rather stay here with you, and not muck about with them." Lestrade grinned back. "You make me as healthy as can be."

"Oh you...!" Mrs. Hudson slapped him lightly on the shoulder with a giggle.

Just then Lestrade heard the street door open and got up.

He poked his head out of Mrs. Hudson's door. "You forget something, Sher-...?"

Mycroft stopped quite suddenly in the doorway, looking mildly surprised to see him. "Oh, hello there."

"Oh hey, Mister Holmes." Lestrade greeted. "Sherlock just left."

"Is that so...?" Mycroft trailed off, looking thoughtful.

"Yup." Lestrade nodded awkwardly, suddenly realizing he really had no idea what else to say to the elder Holmes. He slipped back fully into Mrs. Hudson's flat. "What should I say?" he whispered to the landlady.

"Ask him to join us for tea." Mrs. Hudson suggested.

Lestrade popped his head back out. "Hey, we're just having a cuppa. You want to...?"

"No, thank you for the kind invitation." Mycroft declined politely, half smiling.

"Right." Lestrade nodded. "Busy man, you."

"Yes." Mycroft sighed deprecatingly. "Busy man, me."

They lapsed into an awkward silence.

"So!" Lestrade said suddenly. "Sherlock's got a prospective flatmate. Exciting news, yeah?"

"Oh yes, very." Mycroft responded. "I'm hoping everything will work out. Sherlock could use a keeper, God knows how he's survived so far."

Lestrade chuckled. "I can imagine." Then, he looked puzzled. "Wait, John said he wasn't sure yet, whether he'd move in. How did you-...?"

"Is he spying on his brother again?" Mrs. Hudson asked disapprovingly.

Lestrade turned to her. "He must be." He turned back to Mycroft. "Are you? You must be. Is this a regular thing with you Holmeses?"

"You're rambling, dear." Mrs. Hudson remarked informatively.

"Yes. Yes I am." Lestrade realized. "Sorry, I heard about it in passing from Sherlock, and Anthea, but it really didn't click then."

"You heard about it from Anthea?" Mycroft asked, suddenly intrigued. "I did not know you two were friendly."

"Oh, she stops by every now and then." Lestrade shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal.

"Really, now?" Mycroft droned, eyebrow raised.

"What?"

"Anthea has the emotional capacity of a stone." Mycroft deadpanned back.

"Says you." Lestrade responded flatly.

"It's just that she doesn't make friends easily." Mycroft explained. "She has the damnedest time remembering strangers."

"Well, she remembers you just fine." Lestrade pointed out.

"I'm not a man easily forgotten." Mycroft replied simply.

Lestrade grinned and let the silence answer for him.

"Well, I suppose in a different way..." Mycroft conceded with half a laugh.

"We all have our skills and talents." Lestrade shrugged. "Also, she's addicted to my demi-glace."

"I will be sure to try it out sometime." Mycroft replied.

"You know where to find me." Lestrade smiled.

"In all the places I do not expect you." Mycroft returned humorously.

"I decided not to work today!" Lestrade protested.

"Mister Lestrade, do not keep Mrs. Hudson waiting." Mycroft smiled. "The tea will get cold."

Lestrade nodded. "M'kay, see you around?"

"Undoubtedly."

* * *

Lestrade was in the process of feeding the cat when Donovan rang.

He balanced the bag of cat food on his hip and fumbled with his phone in his other hand. "Lestrade."

_"Sally."_ Donovan announced. _"I'm stuck."_

"What, where, why, and do I have to abandon the cat for this talk?" Lestrade asked, pouring out a portion of cat food into a tin bowl.

_"The Freak's gone and I can't find him."_ Donovan sighed._ "I mean, nothing new about that, but he was jumping around like a lunatic and going on about how the killer made a mistake. And now he's gone and he hasn't told us what's going on or what the mistake even was. He's not answering his phone and I have no idea where he's gone."_

She finished her rant and took a deep, desperate breath.

Lestrade waited for her to catch her breath. "Wait, so this serial suicide is shaping up to be a serial murder?"

_"Yes."_

"How did he figure that out?"

_"Because the victim's bag wasn't at the scene."_

"What bag?"

_"Exactly."_

Lestrade blew out a calming breath. "I can see how it can be stressing to work with him."

_"You think?"_ Donovan whined back.

"Sherlock has all your answers, doesn't he?"

_"Yep."_ Donovan sighed._ "I'm not looking for him for my own health, you know?"_

"Baker Street."

_"What?"_

Lestrade scratched behind the calico's ear as it chewed it's way through her meal. "Well, obviously, he went looking for the bag. He's a smart man, and when he _does_ find it, I don't think he'd be nice enough to cart it all the way down to Scotland Yard for you. It's probably at his flat so he'll probably be there, too."

There was a brief silence on the other end._ "Greg, this is why I always wonder how I became the sergeant, and you the restaurant owner."_

"The answer's obvious." Lestrade snorted. "You can't cook."

Donovan chuckled back and hung up after a quick thanks.

* * *

Lestrade was out wandering the streets later that night when a car pulled up on the street beside him.

He stopped.

"Mister Lestrade, out for a walk?" Mycroft asked, stepping out of the vehicle.

"Nice night for it." Lestrade smiled back. "You?"

"On my way back to the office." Mycroft replied.

"No rest for the wicked?" Lestrade joked.

"Quite right." Mycroft nodded. "Are you sure you should be out at this time of night?"

"If anyone tries to attack me, I can take care of myself." Lestrade assured him. "Did I tell you I have a black belt in Judo?"

"You did not." Mycroft responded. "And anyway, Judo will not be such a great match to, say, a gun."

"I suppose not." Lestrade shrugged, continuing his walk, Mycroft falling into step beside him, the black car trailing after them inch by inch like a stray dog.

The whole situation was a little surreal.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" Mycroft asked him. "Visiting a friend?"

"Eh..." Lestrade shrugged. "Just walking around. Sometimes, it's good to do that without any particular destination."

"You could end up in a very dangerous predicament with a mindset like that." Mycroft pointed out.

"Someone will find me, eventually." Lestrade shrugged. "Someone always does. I have good luck like that. You're here now, aren't you?"

"Yes..." Mycroft hummed. "You know, there was a shooting a few minutes ago, a few streets down. You should be more careful."

Lestrade looked shocked. "My God, really? I thought it was a backfire, or something." He looked concerned. "Was anybody hurt?"

"An unfortunate cabbie." Mycroft shrugged. "Luckily, the police are already there to handle the situation. You didn't see them pass by?"

Lestrade scratched his head. "No... can't say I did. I think I heard the sirens, though."

"And you still thought it was a simple backfire?" Mycroft huffed. "_Normal people!_ You have the strangest way of thinking."

"Oi now!" Lestrade protested. "There_ is_ such a thing called 'coincidence'!"

"A man such as I does not believe in such things." Mycroft told him.

"Well_ I_ do." Lestrade shrugged back.

"Yes, but I find that you're _too much_ of a coincidence." Mycroft declared.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "And... what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, let's start with your choice of friends and acquaintances coincidentally overlapping with Sherlock's."

"Overruled." Lestrade retorted. "I've been friends with Donovan and Molly since before they even_ met_ Sherlock, I'm actually a mate of Molly's brother. Mrs. Hudson was more of a recent find as I only recently met her through my neighbor's bridge contacts."

"Alright." Mycroft relented. "Let's talk about the coincidence of you running into us Holmeses everywhere we go."

"Also overruled." Lestrade said. "I don't actually know how I'm supposed to defend myself against that, but _that_ is definitely coincidence."

"Shall we move on to the coincidence of you just _happening_ to be taking a walk down the street from where tonight's shooting took place?" Mycroft asked.

"You're mad if you think I shot that cabbie." Lestrade grumbled.

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"Mister Lestrade, all I said about the shooting was that it took place down the street a few minutes ago, a cabbie got shot, and that the police were handling the situation. I never said who shot whom, or that the police haven't caught the culprit." Mycroft pointed out.

Lestrade opened his mouth to protest.

But, suddenly, Mycroft was in his personal space, grabbing something out of Lestrade's inner jacket pocket.

"And let's also mention the coincidence of you witnessing the shooting with a camera at hand." Mycroft mocked. "With-... oh! A picture of our shooter. Quite the marksman, our John Watson, hm?"

"Give that back!" Lestrade snapped, holding out a hand expectantly.

"I don't think so." Mycroft said, holding the camera out of reach. "Who do you work for?"

"Give me my camera back, and maybe I'll tell you." Lestrade responded coolly.

Mycroft considered this for a moment before holding the camera out.

Lestrade suddenly grabbed the wrist holding the camera with one hand, the collar of Mycroft's suit jacket with the other, and Mycroft went flying over his shoulder in a rather beautiful throw.

Mycroft landed unceremoniously, a great 'whoosh' of air forcefully exiting his lungs, and Lestrade smoothed down his jacket with a huffy sigh. "Oh, did I mention I do Judo?"

Mycroft wheezed and rolled into a hasty stand. "Indeed you did." he coughed.

David and Anthea jumped out of the car, prepared to interfere.

"Oh, there's no need for that." Lestrade told them, holding his hands up. "I'm done here." He jabbed a finger at Mycroft. "And, I am a private investigator." he declared. "Got that?" He began walking away.

"Liar." Mycroft snapped at his retreating back.

"Not lying." Lestrade threw back without stopping.

"You are, you don't even have a license." the government agent grumbled.

"Not lying!" Lestrade repeated with a nasty grin that said that he was, in fact, lying. But wasn't about to admit it.

And then he was gone.

"Probably going home." Mycroft huffed, patting himself off. "Have a team get there before him. Intercept if he tries to run."

"Yes sir." Anthea responded crisply, already typing on her phone.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Any news on our 'private investigator'?" Mycroft asked the next day, sneering out the words that Lestrade had described himself as being.

"He's opened up shop." Anthea shrugged.

"Ugh, so carefree." Mycroft groaned, stretching and popping his sore back. "Ahh, much better. Perhaps I should drop by?"

"Perhaps." Anthea hummed. "Your brother will be there. Dr. Watson is forcing him out to eat."

"A fine opportunity to bother him about last night's shooting." Mycroft remarked.

"But please keep out of reach of the chef." Anthea called after him coolly. "We wouldn't want a repeat of last night, would we?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, sighed, and stretched his back again.

* * *

"Oh hello, lovely day. How's your back?" Lestrade asked with a saccharine smile.

So that was how he was going to play.

John looked up with mild curiosity. "What's wrong with your back?"

"Don't bother, John." Sherlock grumbled. "You don't want to get involved."

"I was a bit rough with him last night." Lestrade said casually.

John choked up his coffee. "What?"

Lestrade looked at him, snorted at his misunderstanding, and then deadpanned. "I shouldn't have thrown him down like that."

"Um..." John was at a loss as how to respond.

"I couldn't help myself." Lestrade went on. "He was being such a tease!"

"If you're _quite_ finished entertaining yourself at Dr. Watson's expense." Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "I'd like a coffee."

"Right, right." Lestrade rounded the counter to where the coffee machine was. "How do you want it?"

"Any way that will get me through dealing with you people." Mycroft sighed and sat down at the counter.

"Alcohol it is then." Lestrade smirked. "Lots of it."

"Do you really intend to be that much of a nuisance?" Mycroft despaired.

"You tried to steal my camera." Lestrade shot back. "Be glad I won't piss in your drink."

"You flatly lied to my face." Mycroft responded icily. "Be glad I didn't have you arrested."

"Arrest who?" Donovan asked, just coming down from the second floor flat. "Who lied?"

Everybody looked at Lestrade and Mycroft.

"Um..." Lestrade looked at Mycroft.

"Nothing of concern, Sergeant." Mycroft told her politely.

"They're having an argument." Sherlock told Donovan as he absently dissected his food and peered at the insides.

Donovan looked at Lestrade. "And you didn't call me?"

"What?" Lestrade asked her. "Why should I?"

"You don't understand." Donovan tutted. "You don't get angry, ever. As proof of that, you're friends with the Freak. This is a milestone." She patted her friend's shoulder. "Welcome to the Human Race."

"You need to wake up." Lestrade poked her forehead and gently pushed her away from his personal space. "You're talking nonsense."

Donovan stuck her tongue out. "Who's this?" She asked, looking at Mycroft. "And why does he know I'm a sergeant?"

"He's Sherlock's brother." Lestrade said. "His name is Mycroft Holmes."

"I am the polite one." Mycroft said, shaking Donovan's hand.

"He's very rude." Lestrade whispered loudly.

Mycroft looked at him.

"What? You think I wouldn't notice your boys hanging out down the street?" Lestrade shrugged.

"_What?_" Donovan snatched her hand away from Mycroft and stared at him suspiciously.

"I felt sorry for them, staking me out all night, so I made them some doughnuts." Lestrade said to Mycroft. "But I may have also drugged them."

"Like I said, maybe I should have you arrested." Mycroft sighed.

"Coffee?" Lestrade smiled innocently, placing a steaming mug in front of him.

Mycroft drank it anyway.

It was glorious coffee.

Donovan just stared at them both. "You are both _so_ weird."

* * *

When Sherlock and John had left and Donovan went out for a shopping day with some girls, Mycroft finally got down to business.

"So, Lestrade, what do you plan to do with the photos you took last night?" he asked.

Lestrade paused what he was doing and wiped his hands on a dish towel before deciding to light up a cigarette. "Dunno." he shrugged. "Probably erase them."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Think about it, what would I gain from those pictures?" Lestrade asked him.

"How should I know?" Mycroft sighed. "If you recall, I do not know various aspects of this situation."

"Like who I work for." Lestrade nodded. "But, you know, I'm a private detective and I have an obligation not to tell you who I'm working for."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Are we going to do this again?"

"Well, if you ask me a question you already know I'm going to lie about. Obviously, I'm not going to disappoint." Lestrade responded slowly. "And anyway, isn't it funner not knowing?"

"'Funner' is not a word I'd describe it as." Mycroft grunted at him drolly. "'Funner' isn't even a valid word."

Lestrade snorted out a plume of smoke, grinning. "I made you say 'funner'. Twice. It's more amusing when you say it because of all the posh." He scratched his cheek, muttering under his breath. "'Funner'... '_fu-nner_'... '_fun_-uh', how do you say that with such a straight face? For my next trick, maybe I should make you say 'comfy chairs'."

"If you could kindly get back on subject." Mycroft ground out.

"I'm not going to do anything with the pictures." Lestrade told him. "And neither do I intend to."

"Then, why did you take them?" Mycroft asked.

"Because that's my job." Lestrade shrugged.

"As a private investigator?" Mycroft droned.

"As a private investigator." Lestrade nodded back.

"You know I could make life horrid for you."

"I know you could, but is that something you want to risk?" Lestrade asked him pointedly. "Considering the fact that you don't know whether or not my employer has a higher authority than you do."

"And just how would you know my level of authority?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

Lestrade smiled back and didn't reply.

"I don't mean you, or your brother, any ill will." he said once Mycroft got the point. "I'm just an observer who works for someone, who is someone important."

"I'm sure you can understand how that _might_ concern me." Mycroft said flatly.

"I don't care if you're concerned as long as you don't trouble me about it." Lestrade shrugged.

"How is that even possible?" Mycroft grumbled. "_You_ are my source of concern."

"Headspace!" Lestrade said suddenly, catching Mycroft off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"What was that quote that someone said?" Lestrade scratched his temple contemplatively. "Something like 'disliking someone is like letting that person take up headspace for free' or something."

"'Hanging onto resentment is letting someone you despise live rent-free in your head.'" Mycroft corrected him.

Lestrade snapped his fingers. "That's it! That's the quote. Anyway, my point is, I'm not going to get involved, or anything. Like I didn't get involved with last night's shooting episode. Well - I tried not to - you sort of dragged me into something of a bugger, didn't you? But the best thing you can do is ignore me."

"'Ignore you'?" Mycroft huffed. "You have the most aggravating tendency to be everywhere!"

Lestrade waved his hands in the air. "I am vague surroundings." he said convincingly. "Like Sherlock's wallpaper."

"Black fleur-de-lis bracketed by trellises on white." Mycroft shot back. "Not exactly a subject of subtlety."

"Background noises. Like the bell on my diner door."

"There is no bell on your door."

"What, really?" Lestrade got up and craned his neck to look. "Donovan knocked it off again? Could've sworn-..."

"It is a wooden wind chime." Mycroft cut him off archly. "That is _not_ how you use a wind chime."

"Same thing." Lestrade waved him off, unconcernedly.

"You should really get a proper bell."

"If it announces that someone opens the door, I approve." Lestrade huffed. "I've got to work on keeping the diner afloat before worrying about the trimmings!"

"It's not easy being a part-time 'private investigator'." Mycroft said, mock-sympathetically. "I was wondering about your choice of colour coordination." he said, looking around at the... personalized interior design.

Fire engine red sofas lined the walls with bamboo wicker-backed chairs standing opposite the tables.

"Well, all the chairs were bought cheap at a second hand store. And the walls were painted with whatever colours I had in abundance." Lestrade told him.

"Which would explain why one wall is yellow, another green, the third an off-white, and the counter wall is wood-paneled." Mycroft tutted disapprovingly.

"And my flooring is grey linoleum with black flecks." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he extinguished his cigarette. "I know how my diner is laid out."

"It is horrid." Mycroft told him firmly. "You should redecorate."

"If you don't like it, you don't have to come." Lestrade pointed out.

"The coffee is acceptable." Mycroft shrugged. "Also, you shouldn't wear that apron."

Lestrade looked down at the blue apron hanging around his waist. "Why?"

"Blue is an unappetizing colour."

"It was an opening gift from Mrs. Hathaway!"

"You shouldn't rely so on other people's charity." Mycroft admonished.

"Well, if people give me stuff, I _am_ going to use them." Lestrade huffed.

Mycroft turned and looked over the diner's interior thoughtfully.

"Please stop redecorating my diner in your head." Lestrade sighed, annoyed.

"If not for your acquaintance with my brother..." Mycroft began.

"And my godlike coffee." Lestrade added.

"I wouldn't be caught dead in this place." Mycroft finished. "Why only two round tables? Just make them_ all_ square, already. And why do you always have a single chair standing up against the wall with no table?"

"I don't believe in round tables unless there are an odd number in a group." Lestrade shrugged. "I'm a square tables man. And also, that chair is reserved for a very prolific patron."

Mycroft looked at him, eyebrow raised.

Just in time, a rather disheveled-looking calico cat pranced in from the streets, deposited a dead bird on the doorstep, and made herself at home on the chair, curling up and promptly falling asleep.

Mycroft shook his head. "This diner...!" he marveled. "How do you survive?"

Lestrade just shrugged. "Luck?"

"Oh, dear Lord." Mycroft dropped his head in his hand.

Lestrade laughed.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The next day, a few blocks down from the diner, Donovan saw Lestrade sitting on the street curb in his pyjama-drawstrings and a jumper.

She stopped the car and powered down the window, poking her head out. "What are you doing out here in your pyjamas?" she asked him, wondering if she would be better off not knowing the answer.

The shocked/miserable/mildly-catatonic look on Lestrade's face only solidified her worries.

"I got kicked out." Lestrade said dumbly, rolling around a piece of stray concrete on the ground with his toe.

"What? Why?" Donovan snapped.

Lestrade looked at her owlishly. "I don't know how to break this to you kindly, Donovan, but there seems to be a bulldozer in my diner."

"What."

"Bulldozer. In. My Diner." Lestrade enunciated slowly. "As in, the ground floor of our flat. As in."

"Why?" was Donovan's next question.

"Because they said it was an accident. The bulldozer mysteriously went out of control and demolished my diner." Lestrade mumbled.

"Do you think it wasn't an accident?" Donovan asked, legitimately worried.

"That this happens the day after Mycroft and I discuss my awesome interior design?" Lestrade drawled. "Probably not accident."

"You could probably have him arrested." Donovan told him.

"You know that's not going to happen." Lestrade responded. "You're not even bothering to sound like you think anything's going to come of it."

"I work with his brother." Donovan sighed. "And, if you recall, I _have_ met Mycroft Holmes. I've done a little homework on him."

"Well..." Lestrade raised his hands, palms raised upward. "What does he expect me to do now? You know, other than kill him the next time I see him."

"Dunno." Donovan said slowly, looking in the direction of their flat. "But we should probably think of something quick because he's coming down the road."

Lestrade jumped to his feet and picked up the piece of broken concrete he had been nudging around. "Five seconds to give me a good reason not to throw this at him." he murmured. "Go."

"Um, um, he's a really scary superspy that's going to kill the Hell out of you." Donovan suggested. "Uh... you're too mature for that - wait, no you're not. He works somewhere really high up in the government... Hm... he's actually kinda... cute?"

That derailed Lestrade violently enough for him to drop his rock and stare at her incredulously.

Mycroft took that opportunity to join them. "Good evening." he greeted them.

Lestrade shook himself out of whatever shock he was in and turned to Mycroft. "I want to throw things maliciously at you and maybe kill you just a little bit, but Donovan thinks you're cute. My last line of defense against the world has turned against me. Good day, I think I just need to to cry for a minute." he said dumbly and wandered off to find his cat.

Donovan snickered at his retreating back, then she turned back toward Mycroft, all serious now. "Seriously though, we're going to kill you. That was my flat, too, you know."

"Have no fear." Mycroft said to her calmly. "I have a very skilled accident-prone bulldozer driver. There was only damage to the front and main room of the diner, the second floor was entirely untouched."

"Hmm, a very skilled accident-prone driver, huh?" Donovan drawled. "I'm still going to kill you. That is, if Lestrade doesn't get to you first. You know, I've never seen him angry at anybody before and suddenly you waltz into his life and he's turned into an axe murderer."

Lestrade returned with the rowdy cat in his arms. "You two done flirting?" he asked, hugging the feline to his chest. "I've got no shoes on and no shirt under my jumper, it's freezing, I'm going to die."

"Oh, do stop being so melodramatic." Mycroft admonished. "Anyway, I just came to tell you that the upstairs flat is untouched, so you may as well hop in and get dressed properly."

"'Oh, do stop being so melodramatic.'" Lestrade mimicked in a rather good impression. "I'll show _you_ melodrama."

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'll reimburse you for everything." he promised.

Donovan looked at Mycroft, eyebrow arched. "'Everything'?"

Mycroft surreptitiously glanced away. "Well, except for those ghastly chairs, the wall paint, the wind chime, and that horrid blue apron."

"It was a _gift!_" Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated.

"It frankly wasn't even a flattering colour." Mycroft huffed.

"And there's nothing wrong with a wind chime ringing over a door."

"It didn't 'ring' it 'clanked'." Mycroft corrected, aghast. "It was wooden and it sounded like claves. I'm buying you a bell, and that is final."

Lestrade frowned at him.

"Consider it a gift." Mycroft smiled at him. "You would be compelled to use it, no?"

Lestrade's frown turned into a glare.

"You'd be rude not to." Mycroft reminded sweetly.

"I hate you." Lestrade responded with feeling.

* * *

Lestrade was looking over furniture sales online and chewing on a smouldering cigarette when Donovan dropped in with the news.

"Sherlock Holmes is a criminal." she declared.

Lestrade grunted but didn't look up from his laptop. "Okay."

"Not okay!" Donovan exclaimed, exasperated. "He impersonated and broke into a bloke's flat today!"

Lestrade finally looked up. "As opposed to climbing up into Mister Bunter's flat to steal his shoes and get him off a murder charge?" he said flatly.

"Only, this time there was actually a murdered man in the flat he broke into." Donovan sighed heavily.

"Whodunit?" Lestrade asked.

"Don't know yet." Donovan collapsed on the couch and pressed her hands to her tired eyes. "The Freak was investigating something and it led to him breaking into this Van Coon's flat and finding him dead. The investigation is still ongoing but we can't, for the love of God, find the killer's entry or exit point and it's killing me!"

Lestrade patted her shoulder. "There, there."

She sighed. "What's going on with you?"

"Just looking at chairs, and tables, and lights, and wall paints..." Lestrade smudged his cigarette out and rubbed his eyes. "I'm dying of boredom."

"Is this all on Mister Holmes's tab?" Donovan asked.

"Yup."

"Let me help. We can make a dent in his savings."

"I wish. We can try, but we probably wouldn't even scratch the surface." Lestrade sighed. "But yeah, help me out here. You can choose the chairs."

"Gotcha. What about these hot pink Barbie chairs?"

"Hell no."

"It would go great with the My Little Pony themed tablecloths."

"Get out of here! And since when did we decide on tablecloths? We're not the bloody Ritz, Jesus!"

* * *

"So?" Mycroft grumbled, looking unimpressed. "What on earth are we doing down here?"

Lestrade led the way, weaving in and out of random stalls, dodging people in the crowded street. "I'm down here because I know a guy who sells good quality rip-offs for cheap. I don't believe in wasting money for nothing, even if it's just to piss you off._ You're_ here because you're paying and I want to see you suffer in one of the loudest, and possibly tackiest area of the city. Also, Anthea told me it was your day off." Lestrade spread his arms out in a grand gesture. "Welcome to Chinatown."

"Wonderful." Mycroft sighed in a very put-upon way. They jostled through a group of old men firing off impatient-sounding Cantonese. "Lovely. Oh God, what is that smell?" Mycroft looked aghast.

Lestrade grinned. "That would be durian." He gently guided Mycroft past the fruit stalls and deeper into the myriad of foreign population.

"You cannot possibly fathom how much I hate you." Mycroft declared vehemently as they pushed/dodged/stumbled through the neighborhood. It was a very elegant dance that only Lestrade seemed to master.

"Come on, Mister Holmes." Lestrade laughed. "It's all a part of the experience! Bet you've never done this before."

"Obviously." Mycroft shuddered. "And never will I again."

"Well then, it's good that I'm here to witness the once and only." Lestrade joked as he ducked into a tiny little shop burdened down with various objects of merchandise hanging from the doorframe. "Hello?"

"Oh dear." Mycroft sighed. "I think I'll just wait out here. I hardly think there's enough space in that little shop for two."

"Nonsense." Lestrade laughed, poking his head back out. "It's just a little tight."

"Oh, hello."

They both turned to see a very bewildered John Watson observing the scene with a notebook in hand.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft greeted with a grimacing smile.

"Hey, John." Lestrade waved casually. "You out shopping?"

"No I'm-..." John gestured toward the book in hand. "I was... just running an errand."

"For Sherlock's most recent case, no doubt?" Mycroft remarked.

"Yeah."

"What case?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Two murders and a case of horrid graffiti." Mycroft sighed. "If my brother doesn't solve the most obvious answers to this case by sundown, I will be very disappointed."

"What's the most obvious answers?" John asked. "I mean, it would take a whole lot shorter if you just told me."

"Nonsense." Mycroft huffed. "Sherlock wouldn't take tidbits from me." He looked at Lestrade. "And it's a part of the experience." he said in a 'if I must suffer, so must he' tone.

Lestrade snorted.

"Fine." John sighed. "What are you two doing here? I didn't know you were friends. You looked more like you were sort of..." He made vague and uncomfortable gestures between the two of them. "... At odds."

"We're buying furniture." Lestrade announced before Mycroft could say anything.

A cheeky grin, a frustrated glare, and confused looks all went around.

"I can't tell if you're joking, or not." John sighed.

"I'm not." Lestrade told him. "We_ are_ buying furniture, but it's for my diner. I like joking around because it annoys Mister Holmes."

"You are also right." Mycroft told John. "We _are_ at odds."

"We spend our days thinking up new and imaginative ways to torment each other." Lestrade told him. "The most recent is Mycroft 'accidentally' bulldozing my diner because my interior design offended him personally... which brings us to buying new stuff and me dragging him along to torment him."

"You-...?" John shook his head. "Christ, was anybody hurt?"

"Nope." Lestrade shrugged. "But I'm out of business for a few days."

"Sorry to hear that." John said sympathetically. "Anyway, I've got to go..."

"Investigate Mister Lukis's last actions prior to his murder." Mycroft finished. "We shan't keep you waiting. And congratulations on your new job."

John opened and closed his mouth like a beached fish, wondering how Mycroft knew what he knew, before he shook his head and simply accepted that he knew what he knew.

"Okay, bye."

"See you!" Lestrade waved. When John was gone, he turned to Mycroft. "Case?"

"The murders of two smugglers. One of them stole from the Black Lotus Tong and now both of them are dead." Mycroft shrugged. "A simple case, really. Honestly, Sherlock should have deduced the code by now."

Lestrade nodded slowly, not really understanding the simplicity of the case that Mycroft seemed to see, but nodding anyway. Then, he smiled. "Told you the meeting thing is coincidental." he said, pointing down the street where John had disappeared.

"A most alarming realization." Mycroft drawled. "How do you do it?"

Lestrade snorted. "By luck."

"Then, you must be the luckiest man in the world."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

For the first time in weeks, the Strangers Cafe was open.

Donovan walked in the newly furnished front door, ringing the doorbell at least once or twice, pleased at the change.

Bells really were nicer than wooden wind chimes.

She sauntered through the lovely wooden chairs and tables. Square ones with two round tables in the back because Lestrade said so. The floor was now a creme colour with checkers, the walls were a warm yellow, and all four the same colour.

It looked... nice. Professional. And a little bit stylish. Donovan liked the framed pictures on the walls. Nice touch.

The sergeant found her flatmate sitting dismally at one of the tables with his face planted firmly into the smooth wooden table top.

"What's wrong?" Donovan asked. "Thought you might be more excited to open up shop again."

Lestrade threw his hands up without ever lifting his head and made a 'pfff!' noise.

"Look at this place!" he said. "_Look_, Donovan!"

Donovan looked around again and belatedly noticed the new ceiling lamps. "It's nice." she hummed approvingly.

Lestrade lifted his head miserably. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "And now I'll have to actually make a serious effort to run it! I might even have to hire help... help that is_ people_! And I'd have to pay them, and teach them how to work in my diner, and they'd_ touch my coffee machine!_"

"I can see how that would be a terrifying thought." Donovan said with a snort. "Look, just run the store normally and see if more customers come in. Figure out something then, okay?"

"Okay." Lestrade groaned.

The doorbell chimed, startling them.

Anthea walked in. "Hello, are you open?"

Lestrade smiled. "You're my first customer."

Anthea smirked back.

"Yes, yes I am."

And Hell if she didn't plan it that way.

* * *

Donovan was upstairs sleeping after closing the Blind Banker Case and Lestrade was left with Anthea.

"Actually, I didn't just come here to be your first customer." Anthea confessed as she laid her silverware down on her plate.

Lestrade glanced over at her from behind the counter and raised an eyebrow. "Okay?"

Anthea got up and left her table, walking over to him. "I came to talk to you about something important."

"I'm all ears." Lestrade drawled. "Why the mystery?"

"It's..." Anthea fell silent for a moment. "Mister Holmes doesn't know about this, and neither will he. This is something that has never happened in all my years working with him."

Lestrade waited for her to continue.

"I was contacted by your... employers." Anthea told him uncomfortably.

A smile slowly broke out across Lestrade's face and he grinned. "Welcome to the club." he said sympathetically.

"They have explained the situation to me. They have a new mission for you..."

* * *

Later that day, Anthea placed a file on Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft looked up. "What is this, Anthea?"

"Gregory Lestrade's full file, Sir." Anthea told him. "The previous one was... censored and most bits were cut out for security reasons. As always, de-classifying files are difficult to manage without stepping on toes."

"I had noticed." Mycroft huffed. "I'm not an idiot. Which was it? MI6? 5?"

"MI5." Anthea reported crisply.

"So, what did he do for them, I wonder?" Mycroft hummed under his breath, flicking through the pages. "And why have you brought this to me now?"

"Actually, the file was passed on to me by..." Anthea swallowed and soldiered on. "... Mister Lestrade's employers."

Mycroft looked up so quickly that his neck popped. "What!"

"They said it was in all our best interests if you were not made available to the knowledge of who they are, yet." Anthea continued. "In my personal opinion, I agree."

"And you think I should as well?" Mycroft asked her scathingly.

"No, I'm not saying that." Anthea shook her head. "I'm just saying that you may not like the answer. And, Mister Lestrade was right when he said he, and his employers, mean you or Sherlock no harm. On the contrary, he is on your proverbial side. And as such, his employers advised that he be taken on as a freelance agent, seeing as he is already familiar to Sherlock and the people he is acquainted with."

"Who, Anthea?" Mycroft asked impatiently.

Anthea took in a deep breath. "I can't say, Sir."

Mycroft stared at her. "You _do_ know who you work for." he said warningly.

"I realize that this crosses the line of insubordination, but I really cannot say." Anthea said tonelessly. "And, believe me when I say that I don't want to, but Lestrade was right when he spoke of a higher power."

"Goddammit, Anthea, there _is no_ higher power!" Mycroft snapped. "Other than the Queen and a select few others, and I know it's not them because I've asked."

"Exactly why that fact should narrow down your suspect list considerably, Sir." Anthea hinted.

Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands. "You're just messing around with me, aren't you?"

"I wish I was, Sir."

"Was this Lestrade's idea?"

"You give him too much credit." Anthea smiled a little. "He is actually also under orders not to tell you."

"You know who he works for."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing bad will come of this... deprivation of knowledge?"

"Without a doubt, Sir. But, in the circumstances, you are welcome not to believe my word." Anthea told him.

"No, I trust your judgement." Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

"Am I out of a job, Sir?" Anthea asked with the same cool expression as always.

"No, as surprising as that decision may be, I can't find a decent enough PA on such short notice." Mycroft sighed.

"Thank you, Sir." Anthea nodded crisply. "And, on another note, Mister Lestrade is already on his first mission on our behalf." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "He is tracking down General Shan of the Black Lotus Tong. Sherlock, and Lestrade's employers, seemed disappointed that she had escaped."

"Is he now?" Mycroft sighed. "You _do_ work quickly."

"His employers are very efficient people." Anthea shrugged.

"If Sherlock cannot find General Shan, how could_ he?_" Mycroft asked.

"He worked for MI5." Anthea reminded. "And he works in different circles from Sherlock."

"Of course he does." Mycroft sighed, resuming his poring over Lestrade's file. "Quite the character, our Mister Lestrade. Ran away from home, joined the military, got drafted into MI5, slipped away, joined the police academy, mysteriously quit, and suddenly showed up opening a cafe."

"Quite the character, indeed." Anthea agreed.

* * *

Mycroft visited the Strangers Cafe a few days later and found Lestrade leaning on the counter, back to the door, preoccupied by something. It was quite late and there were no customers.

Mycroft swung the door back and forth gently a few times, ringing the bell a second time.

Lestrade jumped a little and subtly slipped something into his pocket before turning around. "Hello! Wel-... oh, hello Mister Holmes."

"Mister Lestrade." Mycroft greeted back, walking over to the counter. "It seems we are going to be working together."

"Don't sound so down." Lestrade encouraged.

"I do not act on someone else's orders." Mycroft grumbled. "Much less when I do not know where the Hell the orders are coming from."

"Believe me, you'll feel stupid when you find out." Lestrade chuckled.

"God help me if it turns out to be Sherlock." Mycroft deadpanned, knowing full well that wasn't the case.

"Not a chance!" Lestrade laughed.

"How are you on the Black Lotus Tong front?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject.

Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out an origami black lotus. "I took a few liberties and snooped around in the circus General Shan and the assassin - Zhi Zhu - used as cover. General Shan is dead. She was found dead, shot in the head by a sniper rifle. I had 'friend of a friend' clean everything up."

"Do we know who did it?" Mycroft asked him.

"Not by a long shot." Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. "I did find some interesting e-mails on her computer, though."

"Oh?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"Some clever bloke she was in contact with, who I think got the Black Lotus Tong passage to England. Mentioned something about General Shan's actions not being led back to this mysterious 'M'." Lestrade shrugged. "Last person to chat with her before she died."

They both lapsed into a grim, thoughtful silence. Then, Lestrade suddenly slammed his hands down on the counter loudly, making Mycroft jump. "Now, do you want some coffee?"

Mycroft stared at him.

Lestrade stared back.

"You are so delightfully odd." Mycroft said finally.

"I'll take that as 'black, two sugars, and a dash of alcohol'."

"Yes please."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

It was three hours past closing time a few days later, and there were still lights on inside the Strangers Cafe.

"See here. Just a nice, bright smile." Lestrade said, pointing at his own face. "Crinkle your eyes a little around the edges, show a little teeth."

Anthea did so.

"Alarming." Lestrade decided at length.

"What are we doing?" Donovan asked, walking into the diner and throwing herself into a chair, draping her sensible black shoulder bag onto a second seat.

"Anthea says people run screaming when she smiles." Lestrade replied. "And she's right."

"Nah, shut up." Donovan flapped her hand at Anthea. "Demure, sly half smiles are the way to go. You have a face for it. Men go for that stuff."

"In my experience, men go for anything, really." Anthea drawled.

"Oh my God, next you're gonna compare sex stories, drink cosmos, and braid each others' hair." Lestrade despaired, throwing his hands up.

Donovan laughed. "Aren't you the food expert? You get to mix."

"I've been in the kitchen all day!" Lestrade complained. "_You_ mix. I can _totally_ handle Anthea's hair!"

"No way!" Donovan laughed. "You can't even make a pony out of my tail!"

"Because your hair is-...!" Lestrade made a gesture with his hands and Anthea couldn't tell whether he was miming a volcano, or a smokestack. Then, he pointed at Anthea's head. "Trust me, I can actually do this."

Donovan looked over at Anthea. "Has he been drinking?" she asked seriously.

"Just a tipple." Anthea responded with a smile.

"Yeah, I don't know what the Hell you found and put in my drink, but wow..." Lestrade made a show of leaning on the counter and fanning his face.

"Oh my God." Donovan looked between Anthea and Lestrade. "You two started drinking without me? How dare you!"

"We needed to get drunk as quickly as possible." Anthea sighed.

"Work woes, apparently." Lestrade added.

"Hers?" Donovan asked. "Or yours."

"They're a bit..." Anthea grimaced. "They overlap a little."

"Holmes problems." Lestrade flapped a hand in a 'don't worry' way. "Come on, Sally, you're here now. Let's make this a real party!"

Donovan sighed.

"I'm all in."

* * *

A few hours later, Lestrade heard his phone ring on the counter and had to stagger his way unsteadily to it and picked it up.

"Lestrade." he announced, glancing over at Donovan and Anthea. "Oh my God, you look like a chocolate soft cream top, how does your hair _do_ that?"

_"Excuse me?"_ John asked, nonplussed.

"Oh sorry, no I wasn't talking to you." Lestrade laughed, mouthing 'Watson' to Donovan and Anthea. Both nodded, giggling slightly. "What's going on?"

_"Uh... was just thinking of getting out of the flat."_ John sighed._ "Sherlock hasn't had a decent case in days and he's taken to abusing the walls. I was just calling to ask if you wanted to pop by a pub or something, but I get the vague feeling I'm a bit late for that."_

Lestrade snorted. "It's okay, I'm at my place with Anthea and Donovan. We've still got alcohol and we could always use another pair of hands to control Donovan's hair."

_"I don't know about braiding hair, but count me in."_ John decided.

"We're just about to gossip. You could be our sassy hetro friend."

That drew a laugh. _"I'll be there in a few."_

"We'll be waiting."

* * *

"Jesus Christ!" was the first thing John said, walking into the diner. "Are those cornrows?"

Donovan looked hollowly up from under Anthea and Lestrade's hands, picking and pulling at her scalp like monkeys. "And neither of them are sympathetic to the fact that I still have to go to work tomorrow." She said this with the tone of a person who had given their all to prevent the inevitable, gave up eventually, and now let this depravity happen with a sort of defeated acceptance.

"Shh." Lestrade cooed sweetly. "It'll be awesome. I told you I could do it."

Anthea let out the most elegant and ladylike giggle/snort that John had ever heard.

"Wow, you really weren't kidding about the braiding hair stuff." John said with a morbid fascination, watching the strips of black and scalp-white wind their way down Donovan's head.

"I'm_ never_ kidding about the braiding stuff." Lestrade replied soberly.

"Well, if you don't mind, I'm just going to help myself to your stash of alcohol." John announced as he walked over to the counter where he found several empty bottles.

"Go ahead." Donovan sighed when the other two did not answer, too concentrated on not messing up their masterpiece.

"Thanks."

"I've been meaning to ask something. "Anthea said, speaking for the first time since John arrived. "Your cat, it's not a stray anymore if it's yours. And does she have a name?"

"Well, I've been putting off naming her until I knew for certain that she wasn't someone's pet." Lestrade shrugged. "It's been months since then. I call her 'Cat'."

Donovan snorted. "Could say it's short for 'Kate' or 'Catherine'."

"Kate _is_ short for Katherine, dumbo." Lestrade chortled back.

"Where did you find her, anyway?" Anthea asked.

"She found me!" Lestrade exclaimed. "She suddenly started showing up here and never left."

"Kind of like everybody else in your life." Donovan joked.

"I've got a magnetic personality." Lestrade gave a thumbs up. "They just can't stay away."

"Where did you two meet?" John asked, halfway through a beer.

"Us?" Lestrade asked, segwaying a finger between himself and Donovan.

"Police Academy." Donovan answered. "He dropped out, for some god awful reason, to open up this diner."

"Really?" John looked slightly surprised. "You wanted to become a policeman?"

"Almost did, too." Donovan nodded. "Claimed the best scores in class. Would probably be Detective Inspector by now, if not, DCI. Our instructors had high hopes for him."

"Wow, why didn't it happen?" John asked curiously.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a rebel."

"Oi now, I thought your reasoning back then was 'just because'." Donovan exclaimed with a chuckle.

"I get classier by the day." Lestrade saluted back unsteadily, nearly scratching out his eye. "Jesus."

"Ugh, I feel like puking." Donovan groaned.

Anthea just sat primly with the serenity of angels.

John just sat back and sort of watched the threesome. This was more fun than watching sit-coms on the telly.

Suddenly, Anthea's phone buzzed and she merely lowered her eyes to look at it. Then, she sighed.

"That doesn't sound good." Lestrade said.

"My boss doesn't have a life." Anthea replied frankly and began typing back with a lightning speed that would surprise most. Shocking, even, if they knew she had been drinking.

She didn't even make a single mistake. Not that Lestrade was peeking or anything.

Anthea looked up sharply at him as if she could hear his thoughts.

Okay, he was totally peeking.

"It might have something to do with you." Anthea told him quietly.

Donovan picked up on that. "Why?"

"Insurance mumbo-jumbo." Lestrade lied without missing a beat. "Just tying up all the loose ends of him bulldozing this diner."

Anthea looked over at him, eyebrow rising in mild admiration. "Glad to see you've still got your wits about you."

"Wits are overrated." Lestrade waved her off. "I want to watch a Disney movie."

Donovan burst out laughing.

Halfway through some musical number, Lestrade went to the bathroom and Anthea went to refresh their drinks.

They met in the kitchens with the secrecy of adulterous lovers.

"Are you familiar with the name 'Andrew West'?" Anthea asked quietly.

"Andy?" Lestrade scratched his head. "Yeah, he's one of Six's blokes, isn't he? He's a blabbermouth. I've met him once or twice while I was in Five."

"He's dead."

Lestrade paused and looked at her critically. "You just made me speak ill of the dead."

"Yeah, I didn't mean to."

"Alright, but what does Mycroft want done about it?"

"Do you know about the Bruce-Partington Project?" Anthea asked, point blank.

"Yeah, everyone who is anybody knows." Lestrade shrugged. "Like I said, Andy was a blabbermouth."

"And you said you only saw him once or twice when you were in MI5." Anthea smirked back.

"Yeah, I said that." Lestrade smiled unapologetically.

"You are such a liar." Anthea hummed approvingly.

"I'm one of Five's." Lestrade pointed out.

"My boss has made the decision to enlist his brother to solve the murder, he wants the USB with the plans back ASAP." Anthea told him. "It's gone missing from West's flat."

"So? Just make Sherlock get it." Lestrade said.

"You know Sherlock." Anthea sighed. "He only cares about the puzzles. There's no guarantee what he'll do about the plans, if he does anything about them at all."

"Right. Okay." Lestrade shrugged. "So I get to play reverse hide-and-seek with Sherlock?"

"That's the game."

"Well, it's a great game." Lestrade grinned in anticipation.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

The 'gas explosion' across the street from 221b Baker Street was the perfect excuse to go visit.

Lestrade bypassed the firemen on scene with a slight smile and a wave. He wasn't visiting the site of the explosion after all. He shouldered his way through the front door and was nearly barreled over by Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson." he greeted. "Are you okay?"

"Just a few glass shards in my sitting room, dearie, it'll be fine." Mrs. Hudson waved his concern off, sounding more upset than frightened. "I wasn't even in the room. I was on the stairs, safe and sound."

"Thank God for small mercies."

"Sherlock was just complaining about the peace and calm moments before the explosion." Mrs. Hudson tutted disapprovingly. "He's not so bored now."

"I'll bet." Lestrade nodded soberly. "Cookies?"

"I'd love some."

"I'm just going to pop in on John and Sherlock, were they hurt?"

"No, thank God." Mrs. Hudson sighed with relief. "John was out with a girl, see?" A slight giggle. "It's nice to be young. And Sherlock can survive mostly anything."

Lestrade chuckled. "Okay then, I'll be upstairs. Holler if you need something."

"Of course, dearie."

Lestrade jogged up the steps two at a time.

"Don't make me order you." said a condescending voice that could only belong to one person on earth.

"I'd like to see you try." And that would be the brother.

Lestrade walked in. "Hello." he said to Sherlock. "Hello." he said to Mycroft. "Hey John, I heard you were out with a lady last night. Well done. Am I interrupting something?"

"Kind of, yeah." John said unsurely.

"Well, if you're going to do something bad, you might as well do it spectacularly." Lestrade shrugged. "Should I leave?"

"Oh no, I was just on my way out." Mycroft told him before looking back at his brother. "Do think it over, will you?" He turned and shook John's hand. "Goodbye, John. See you very soon."

John grunted back.

"Mister Lestrade."

Sherlock began torturing his violin, possibly to speed the process of elimination of their numbers along. Lestrade stuffed a finger into one ear and shook Mycroft's hand with his other.

"See you, Mister Holmes."

The door swung shut behind the government official.

Lestrade unplugged his ear and turned back. "Came to extend his condolences to the poor windows?"

John snorted. "I wish."

"He wants me on a case." Sherlock drawled out, absently tapping his violin strings with his bow.

It made an atrocious 'zing, zing' noise.

"Exciting news, Mrs. Hudson said you were bored. Now you've got an explosion, _and_ a case." Lestrade said dryly. "You must be over the moon."

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he picked it up.

"And now Dimmock is calling. Today must be my lucky day."

* * *

Donovan stalked into the diner and flipped the 'Open' sign on the door to 'Closed', and locked the door. Then, she hopped onto one of the counter stools and leveled an intense look at Lestrade.

Lestrade stared back. "You know, there are people eating in here. They need to get out sometime."

"Shush. I demand to tell you about my day." Donovan growled.

Lestrade tossed the dish towel he had been drying coffee mugs with over his shoulder and leaned against the other side of the counter. "Okay."

"I'm worried." Donovan began.

"About?"

Donovan swallowed. "A package came in, today, addressed to the Freak."

"Came in, as in, to the station?"

"Yup." Donovan sighed. "It was a phone."

"Thoughtful of the sender." Lestrade remarked.

"It isn't a laughing matter." Donovan snapped. "There's a hostage on the other end of the line. Someone is controlling her. The Freak has a couple of hours to solve a case or she's going to die."

Lestrade paused. "Wait, you're talking in present tense."

"She's still alive. But she's still there." Donovan told him grimly.

"Well, you know Sherlock. He'll solve the case." Lestrade said to her reassuringly.

"That's not what I'm worried about." Donovan sighed. "The Freak investigates cases for dead people. Never when they're still alive. This criminal... I don't know, it feels like he's the kind of unstable person who doesn't need a reason to kill. The Freak is involved. He's leading the investigation this time around. How many reasons do you think he'd give? He's never been in a hostage case before, and I'm worried."

"Well..." Lestrade said slowly. "John's there. And you're there. I don't know about this Dimmock Inspector because I've never met him yet, but he'll be there too. You guys keep a sharp eye on proceedings, yeah?"

Donovan nodded. "Yeah."

"And on him."

"I'm sure John can take care of that."

Lestrade snorted. "And tell Dimmock to get his ass over here sometime, or I'm going over there."

"Please! Anything but that!" Donovan begged with a small smile.

Lestrade grinned back. "Lunch?"

"And then back into the fray." Donovan sighed.

* * *

"Hello, anybody in?" Lestrade called out, poking his head into the labs at Bart's.

He caught sight of Molly giggling quietly by one of the computers with a rather ordinary looking fellow. Probably a friend.

"Hey."

Molly looked up and smiled. "Hey, Greg."

The man looked up, his dark, hollow-ish eyes taking him in up an down once before returning his attention back to Molly.

"This is Jim." Molly introduced them. "He works in IT."

"Hullo." Jim greeted casually.

"Hey, I'm Greg." Lestrade walked over and shook his hand.

It was cold as ice. It felt like a dead thing.

Lestrade looked up in slight surprise and Jim caught his look before smiling self-deprecatingly and sticking both hands into his trouser pockets.

"What's up?" Lestrade asked, turning back to Molly.

"Oh, nothing much. Just looking at cat pictures." Molly blushed.

"Toby's going to feel hurt that you're cheating on him!" Lestrade joked.

"They're just pictures, I can look as long as I don't touch." Molly giggled back.

Lestrade turned to Jim. "Her cat - Toby - hates me."

"I've met him." Jim grinned back. "He seems nice."

"That's because you don't smell like you've been marked by some other feline." Molly pointed out.

"Well, anyway, I was just passing by. Dropped in on Sherlock and John a few minutes ago." Lestrade shrugged. "They looked busy."

"Sherlock?" Jim spoke up, looking at Molly. "Isn't that-...?"

"Yes." Molly quickly cut in before Jim could finish his sentence. "You want to meet him?"

"Sure." Jim shrugged.

"Well, we're going upstairs then." Molly said to Lestrade.

"Don't be so surprised, or hurt, if Sherlock doesn't give you the time of day." Lestrade said. "Just warning you."

"Okay, bye!" Molly waved.

"Well, it was nice to meet you." Jim shook his hand again with his icy hands. "...Greg."

"Jim from IT." Lestrade grinned back, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood up.

Jim had this sort of smile that said he knew.

And then Lestrade found himself alone.

He shuddered.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

**_Hostage situation at Piccadilly Circus. Sniper on scene. Eight hour limit. Get him. Alive, if possible. -MH_**

**_Five hours, knowing Sherlock. -MH_**

**_Be there in ten minutes. -GL_**

**_Haha. Very funny. -GL_**

**_You failed to mention 'BOMB'! -GL_**

**_My apologies. -MH_**

**_My ass. What am I supposed to do about this? -GL_**

**_Do whatever it is you do, to the best of your ability. -MH_**

**_You do know that there's more than one sniper? -GL_**

**_I'm sure you can handle it. -MH_**

**_I hate you. I want to hit you. -GL_**

**_And Anthea mentioned something about a root canal. -GL_**

**_Tempting. -GL_**

**_Please restrain yourself. -MH_**

* * *

Lestrade crouched pressed against a window, his phone to his ear.

_"Holmes."_

"Holmes, you ass."

Mycroft sighed. _"You do understand that there are more pressing matters than your-..."_

"I've got a handle on..._ half_ the situation." Lestrade interrupted brusquely.

_"Explain."_

"I've taken down the gunman who had the hostage in his sights." Lestrade told him.

_"There has been no visible change in the situation."_

"Yeah, about that..."

_"You're the one keeping a laser on the poor man now, aren't you?"_

"You're so perceptive." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "What else was I supposed to do? There's a second gunman ready just for this sort of situation. I don't know how long I have before he realizes I'm not his partner. Where are your people?"

_"En route."_

"Good. Ah, no - sorry- not good."

_"What?"_

"I think I've just been made." Lestrade grimaced. "He's doing a runner. Where did you say your men were?"

Mycroft sighed._ "Forget the hostage. Emergency services will take care of him. Take down the gunman."_

Lestrade hung up, not needing any further order. "Bossy." he grumbled but put down the sniper rifle he had taken off the first gunman and took off running.

He and the second sniper were positioned strategically in separate buildings, but Lestrade thought he could cut him off on the ground.

He was wrong.

He drew up short about half a block.

The two broke off at a dead run.

Lestrade grabbed his phone, pushing through the crowd. "Mycroft, he's on the move!"

_"I see you."_ came the unhurried voice on the other end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade could see cameras turning their little mechanical heads to follow them.

"Course you do." Lestrade grumbled.

_"Eyes on the road, Mister Lestrade."_ Mycroft sighed.

The sniper darted across a the street, causing a car to screech and beep angrily at him. Lestrade followed a moment after shouting an apologetic 'sorry!' to the frazzled driver.

Lestrade saw the sniper turn a sharp corner and disappear. He slowed, careful not to be taken by surprise. He turned the corner and scanned the faces for his target.

He didn't find it.

_"He's in a vehicle now."_ Mycroft told him. _"A black Mazda."_

Lestrade skidded to a halt, groaning. "The one that just drove past me, wasn't it?"

_"Quite right."_

Lestrade blew out an exasperated breath and spun around, taking off in the direction he had just come from.

_"Do you expect to pursue a car on foot, Lestrade?"_ Mycroft asked dryly, obviously questioning his mental faculties.

"Of course not." Lestrade huffed. "How badly do you want this man?"

_"Badly, why?"_

Lestrade crossed the street in a run that nearly gave several drivers heart attacks. He pounced on a motorcyclist waiting at a stoplight.

"Sorry, I need to use this real quick!" he shouted, fairly throwing the poor man off.

The startled man ripped off his helmet and shouted obscenities at Lestrade's back. Lestrade paused, turned around, returned to the man, and grabbed his helmet before pursuing the sniper.

"Again, sorry!"

Mycroft couldn't stop his chuckle fast enough.

"Safety first." Lestrade told him as he fumbled with the helmet and phone with one hand and navigated traffic with the other, quickly eating distance between him and the sniper's car.

Moriarty's man must've seen him because he broke out of line and charged into the other lane, causing a group of cars to swerve, beeping their horns madly.

"Fucker!" Lestrade dodged, scraping his back wheel on one of them. He gripped his handlebars tightly with both hands, steadying himself.

He dropped his phone in the process.

He let out a nervous laugh. "Oh shit."

Mycroft, safe and sound in his office, stared at his phone in mild disappointment as the connection was abruptly severed.

"Oh dear." He returned his attention to his monitors.

Lestrade sped up, weaving in and out between cars, navigating the traffic faster than any car had any hopes of doing.

"Gotcha, you little..." Lestrade murmured under his breath.

The sniper crossed an intersection with Lestrade hot on his bumper when Lestrade caught movement out of the corner of his vision.

**_Crash!_**

A car ran a red light from Lestrade's blind side and rammed his back tyre, spinning him wildly out of control.

Lestrade was thrown clear off the motorbike and landed hard, rolling an alarming distance before coming to a skidding halt, cotton-white web of scratched material sheared over the side of his helmet.

He didn't move for a long time.

People began getting out of their cars and gathering around cautiously, calling ambulances.

Then, Lestrade's hand gave a feeble twitch, then proper movement, gingerly feeling for any broken bones. He weakly lifted his hand to his head, feeling the helmet.

"Helmet, check." he mumbled under his breath. "Nothing leaking? Good. Limbs are still attached, wonderful."

He slowly sat up and pulled his helmet off.

A woman approached him concernedly. "Are you okay, mate?" she asked him.

"Fine, I'm fine." Lestrade waved her off and staggered unsteadily to his feet. "Wow, _ooh_, head rush."

A young man with a dirt-blond buzz cut jogged in from his other side and steadied him.

Lestrade looked at him and suddenly rattled off a line of numbers and letters.

"Excuse me?" the man asked, baffled.

"Number plates of the car I was chasing, and the car that hit me. Tell Mycroft." Lestrade said.

The man looked at him - baffled - for a moment or two before complying.

"Better get this off the road." Lestrade gestured toward the motorbike.

"It'll be taken care of." the man replied.

"Ugh, not feeling too bright." Lestrade groaned, rubbing his neck. "Feeling a bit of an earthquake."

"You should probably sit down." the blonde suggested, then in afterthought asked him. "How many Richters?"

Lestrade snorted out a laugh as he sat down on the curb. "Cheeky." he noted.

"Sorry." the man sheepishly responded. "I'm new."

"I like it." Lestrade grinned and held out his hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"Stanley Hopkins." The man responded, shaking his hand. "Call me Stan."

"Alright, Stan. You can call me Greg." Lestrade replied.

"Should I bring 'round an ambulance?" Stan asked him.

"Nope." Lestrade responded dully. "Do you have a car?"

"Yeah, where do you need to be?"

Lestrade leveled him a perfectly serious look. "How loyal are you to Mycroft Holmes?"

Stan stared at him oddly. "Is this a trick question?"


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Lestrade was awoken sometime the next day by his phone ringing.

He flung out his arm, feeling around blindly for a few moments before finally realizing that his nightstand was just out of reach. Despite the various aches and bruises, he crawled out from under his covers and picked his phone up.

"Lestrade." he croaked.

_"Where the Hell are you?"_ Mycroft sounded less than pleased.

"In my flat." Lestrade responded grumpily. "Good morning, by the way."

_"It's four in the afternoon."_ Mycroft told him sharply. _"And you're not in your flat, Sergeant Donovan is growing hysterical with worry. Came home late after dealing with my brother and realized you weren't there."_

It took about two seconds for the words to register in Lestrade's head. "Oh _shit_. Are you over there now?"

_"She's considering rounding up a search party."_

"Wrong flat."

_"Excuse me?"_

"I'm in a different flat." Lestrade repeated. "Stan drove me over and promised not to tell."

_"Who?"_

"Holy shit, he actually didn't tell you." Lestrade marveled. "One honest man in the world of espionage."

_"He is sure to die quickly."_ Mycroft sighed._ "Honest men always do."_

"Alright, I'll come clean. I don't want to die. I've got a second flat you don't know about." Lestrade said flatly.

_"Thank you for being so honest with me, I hadn't already come to that conclusion."_ Mycroft responded quite crossly.

Lestrade just chuckled and hung up.

Mycroft rang back a moment later.

"Two calls in as many minutes? I've got to give it to you, Mister Holmes, you're tenacious when you want something."

There was perfect silence on the other end, then a deep exhale.

"Count to ten, I find that helps." Lestrade suggested helpfully.

_"Not as much as I need it to."_

"Don't be like that." Lestrade smiled. "I just didn't want to explain to Donovan why I came back looking like I was in a car crash."

_"Well, in the future, please do not run off like that."_ Mycroft said as patiently as possible.

"I don't work for you."

_"If we're going to work together, we're going to have to draw up regulations sometime."_

"Yeah, lets do that sometime." Lestrade said and hung up again. This time, he called back.

_"Why do you keep doing that?"_ Mycroft asked him when he picked up.

"Because my phone is from an earlier age without GPS in every electronic, and you're trying to trace my call." Lestrade replied. "No, don't bother trying to deny it, you are most definitely doing it."

Mycroft sighed.

"Alright, lets start drawing regulations from here: I work for you when you give me a job. Otherwise, it's really none of your business. Okay?"

_"Very well."_

"And no bullying Stan into leading you here."

_"If you were willing to let him drive you there with the expectation of him telling me, then you most likely have a second flat set up for hiding away in."_ Mycroft pointed out.

"Well, let's keep it for when I really need it." Lestrade yawned.

_"Sleepy?"_

"And cranky." Lestrade huffed back. "Tell Donovan I'll be back by tonight."

_"And what shall I tell her you have you been doing?"_

Lestrade smirked. "Painting the town red."

This time, Mycroft hung up first.

* * *

Donovan was outraged when Lestrade got home.

"Where _were_ you?" she exclaimed, punching his arm. "Do you know how worried I was?"

"I_ told_ Mycroft to tell you I was coming back soon." Lestrade huffed, spluttering on the cigarette in his mouth, trying not to wince at the pain that shot down his sore muscles. "Calm down."

Donovan blinked blankly. Lestrade stared back.

"Oh that _bastard!_" Lestrade groaned when he realized.

Donovan came to the same conclusion. "Asshole!"

"He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Nope. You must've pissed him off again." Donovan sighed, running her fingers through her knotty hair.

"I heard Sherlock solved the case with the hostage." Lestrade remarked.

"Yup. More than one, actually." Donovan nodded.

"What, really?"

"Two hostages... so far." Donovan sighed, rubbing her eyes.

"Serial kidnapper?" Lestrade asked her worriedly as if he knew nothing of the case.

"Something like that." Donovan grunted. "The Freak's still on the case and luckily nobody's died yet. Anyway, where were you?"

"Oh, just out." Lestrade shrugged vaguely, flicking his smoke into the sink and watching it fizzle out.

But Donovan was having none of it. "Uh-huh... was it a-..." she bobbed her eyebrows a few times suggestively. "... _thing?_"

"What? _No!_" Lestrade exclaimed, appalled. "Sally! Why is it that the first unexplained action I take has to take a turn for the gutter with you?"

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks." Donovan smirked.

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but realized the truth would be a for more uncomfortable topic of discussion. "I plead the fifth." he sighed, defeated.

"So when to I get to meet this girl?" Donovan asked. "Or guy."

"Never." Lestrade told her firmly.

"What? Why not?" Donovan complained.

"You never introduce me to _your_ um, guy - people - you know." Lestrade rambled uncomfortably.

"That's because my job doesn't introduce me to any good men." Donovan sighed sadly.

Just then, Anthea walked into the diner.

A fleeting, calculative look flickered in Lestrade's eyes but it was gone when Donovan glanced a second time. She must've imagined it.

"Hey, Anthea." Donovan greeted, walking over, fully intent on using underhanded tricks to get information out of her flatmate. She was a cop, and she knew her way around an interrogation. "Remember when we talked about Greg being a eunuch? Well, we were wrong."

"Hey!" Lestrade whined.

"Really now?" Anthea raised her eyebrows at Donovan, glanced at Lestrade, and smirked.

Lestrade pressed his palms together behind Donovan's back in a pleading gesture.

Anthea slipped a hand into her pocket as she listened to Donovan chattering on.

**_Free meals, on the house. -A_**

**_I wouldn't let my pretend girlfriend pay. Silly. -GL_**

**_Deal. -A_**

"Hey." Lestrade called as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "Might as well ask now, since Sally's being a nosy bugger again. You free Friday night, Anthea?"

Donovan's mouth dropped open in shock. Since words were not forthcoming, she settled for pointing at Lestrade, and then at Anthea.

"Well, remember that time we talked about Lestrade being a eunuch?" Anthea smiled innocently at her. "Apparently, we were wrong. And yes, I'm free Friday."

Lestrade smiled. "Good, let's go out."

"You?" Donovan asked, pointing at Lestrade again now that her voice was working again, more or less. "And you?" She pointed at Anthea.

"Me." Lestrade shrugged.

"And me." Anthea mimicked him.

"Oh my God." Donovan fisted her hands in her hair as if her head would explode. "Too much drama, too quickly to comprehend. My life has become a sit-com."

"Teach you about privacy." Lestrade hummed.

"She's _so_ out of your league." Donovan said to Lestrade.

"I know." Lestrade grinned happily. "I decided to get involved with a girl really, really out of my league. And eventually get my heart really, really broken."

"Yup, I only love you for your body." Anthea responded with a smile.

"And my food."

"And your food." Anthea conceded with a one-shouldered shrug.

"Oh my God..." Donovan groaned. "My head hurts now... How? When did this happen?"

"Is that something you really want to know?" Lestrade asked dryly.

Donovan whimpered.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Anthea passed over a file the moment she and Lestrade were alone.

Lestrade took it and absently flipped it open. "What am I looking at?"

"Alex Woodbridge." Anthea responded in a clipped tone. "Or, what is left of him. He was murdered, strangled to death twenty-four hours ago. Sherlock and Dr. Watson are on the case."

Lestrade ran a finger down the list of facts about the case. "Oscar Dzundza." he suddenly announced. "The Golem. The M.O matches."

"Sherlock came to the very same conclusion." Anthea nodded grimly. "You know of him?"

Lestrade smiled sheepishly. "Met him once, six years ago. Charming fellow, nearly popped my head off."

"Well, he's back." Anthea shrugged. "The Baker Street Duo will no doubt be in pursuit of him."

"And vice-versa." Lestrade sighed. "Golem doesn't like people getting in his way."

Anthea looked at him.

"It was a long time ago." Lestrade waved her off. "It's not going to be a problem."

"Good." Anthea nodded grimly.

"Where are Sherlock and John, now?" was Lestrade's next question.

"Following up a lead."

"This... Professor Cairns?"

"The very same." Anthea nodded. "They suspect the Golem will be paying her a visit."

"I guess that's where I'll be headed to, then."

"Good to know."

"I hope Mycroft wasn't too much of a bother about me slipping off." Lestrade winced.

Anthea looked at him for a moment, aghast. "If he wasn't my boss - and if you weren't my pretend boyfriend - I'd kill the both of you idiots."

"God knows how you tolerate us, love." Lestrade smirked.

Anthea snorted and gave him a retaliatory punch for the added endearment.

"Ow! Victim of car accident, here!" Lestrade complained.

* * *

"Let him go, or I_ will_ kill you." the little blonde gunman threatened solidly, pistol raised at eye level pointing upward at its massive target.

The Golem laughed over the muffled noises of protest Sherlock was making behind his gloved hand.

The Golem swung around, leg snapping out and suddenly the gun was gone from John's hands. The ex-military man hadn't even seen the hulking giant move in the darkness.

After living a lifetime in the filthy dark homeless gutters, the Golem had understandably mastered the advantage of darkness.

The two intruders scurried around like mice nipping and scratching at a boulder. Useless.

With a great big swing of his arm, he threw the Baker Street Duo around like tiny ragdolls and was briefly transported to a moment of childhood, smashing tiny, plastic, model cities.

The Golem turned and dashed for the door, his long strides quite creating the illusion of flight.

Sherlock fired after him, but the shots flew wide.

The Golem shouldered his way out of the theater and hightailed it down the hall knowing John and Sherlock were in no shape to set chase.

He turned the corner and nearly plunged his ugly face into a group of three gun barrels.

"Don't." Anthea warned him flatly. "Just don't."

One of the doors behind him in the hall opened and three more men emerged. One was Lestrade.

"Up against the wall, hands where we can see them." Anthea barked.

"You heard the lady." Lestrade grinned, stepping forward with a pair of rather solid looking handcuffs.

He was the only one who wasn't holding a gun.

Lestrade followed the Golem's gaze to himself and shrugged sheepishly. "I don't believe in guns." he said, snapping one of the cuffs on the Golem's right hand.

The Golem shoved off the wall and spun around, wrapping his free arm around Lestrade's neck in a choke hold, shielding himself from the guns with Lestrade's body.

Two shots rang out and blood spurted from The Golem's right knee and his left shoulder.

The monstrous figure let out a groaning noise of pain that was a hybrid scream and sob and fell over.

Anthea had fired the one shot to the Golem's shoulder.

Lestrade had a smouldering hole in his jacket pocket from where he had fired from inside the fold.

Lestrade regained his footing and wrestled his way out of the Golem's grip and snapped the other cuff on the assassin.

"See what I said about guns?" he sighed out, grimacing as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders. "I lied."

Anthea ran her free hand through her hair, the other still keeping her gun trained on the Golem. "Get him back to HQ." she ordered gruffly.

"And do I get to know where that is?" Lestrade asked as a few of the men grabbed the Golem and dragged him off.

"Nope." Anthea shook her head and followed after them.

"What? Come on!" Lestrade whined, trailing on her heels like a pup. "I want to see your super-secret spy lair, Anthea!" Anthea didn't reply. "Honey? Sweetheart? Darling?"

Anthea stopped suddenly, nearly making Lestrade bowl her over. She turned to him and grabbed his collar. "Call me that... _one more time._" she dared, eyes narrowed to slits.

Lestrade raised his hands in submission. "Yes ma'am."

Anthea raised her eyebrow.

"I mean, no ma'am."

"Good." She let him go and turned on her heel, stilettos clipping purposefully off down the hall.

Lestrade blew out a breath. "I'm not sure what this means about our love life, Anthea." he joked.

The rest of Mycroft's men, Stan being one of the agents requested by Lestrade, choked on thin air and stared at each other, unsure of how to handle the situation.

Anthea huffed out a laugh. "Means I wear the pants."

"And you rock them." Lestrade agreed. "I'm a little turned on. Seriously, what are you _like_ in the bedroom?"

Anthea smirked at him.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes I would." Lestrade grinned back easily.

Stan blushed and covered his ears.

* * *

It was late at night by the time Lestrade got home. He sighed wearily and shrugged off his jacket.

"So... you're home late." Lestrade jumped and spun around to face Donovan.

"Whaa-... Jesus, Donovan! Don't scare me like that!" Lestrade complained.

Donovan shrugged. "Just looking after my mate."

"Yes, okay? I was out late, Mum." Lestrade rolled his eyes and grinned. "Consider it my rebellious stage and get used to it."

"But seriously, Anthea?" Donovan shook her head, amazed. "I thought you two had more of a BFFs relationship going on."

"We do." Lestrade snickered and leaned in. "BFFs with benefits."

Donovan snorted elegantly and swatted him. "You two are too much. But seriously, she's great."

"Would you trust her with my life and well being?" Lestrade questioned playfully.

"Oh I'd trust her with your life more than I trust you." Donovan shot back with a smile.

"Oi!"


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

"So..." The tension in the air could be cut with a butter knife. "Anderson, Lestrade - Lestrade, Anderson." Donovan introduced the two men.

Lestrade was the first to offer his hand. "Greg Lestrade." he said warily.

"Philip Anderson." Anderson responded, shaking it.

They shook hands briefly and immediately stepped back as if sizing each other up. Anthea, who was sitting at one of the diner tables, began tapping her perfectly lacquered nails on the wooden surface.

"Um..." Donovan said uncomfortably, then threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. "See, Greg? This is why I don't invite my male friends over!" she practically wailed.

"Watch out." Anthea advised casually. "Your inner protective father is showing."

Lestrade glared at her for a moment before he shook his head. "Sorry, where are my manners?" he smiled lightly. "Tell me about yourself? What do you do?"

"I'm in forensics." Anderson smiled back. "That's how I met Sally." The two exchanged warm looks.

Anthea paused in her tapping only to briefly wrinkle her nose, before resuming her habit.

"Crime scene romance." Lestrade remarked jokingly and Anderson huffed out an obligatory laugh.

"Guilty as charged, Your Honour." he responded and turned to Anthea. "And you are...?"

"Sleeping with Greg." Anthea responded, straight-faced.

"Her name is Anthea." Lestrade added without a hitch. "By the way. Just saying."

"Oh... um." Anderson coughed. "Nice to meet you."

"Sorry, they're-..." Donovan sighed. "They're always like this."

"Always." Lestrade agreed solemnly.

Anthea made a humming sound of agreement and smiled.

"I like it." Anderson smiled. "It's... interesting. Refreshing."

"Best thing is that you can be as weird as we are and we won't judge." Lestrade mock-saluted.

"Always a good trait to look for in a friend." Anderson agreed, smiling.

Just then, Donovan's phone rang and she grimaced. "Well, that's our cue. Anderson, come on, work calls." She looked at Lestrade and Anthea. "Sorry guys."

"Don't worry." Lestrade waved her off. "We're not going anywhere. Anderson, come back whenever, we should go out sometime to the pub, or something."

"Okay, sure." Anderson nodded.

The two left the diner.

Lestrade and Anthea exchanged glances.

"Forensics." Lestrade began.

"Crime scene romance?" Anthea wondered aloud.

"Do you think-...?"

"Flirting over a dead body? Not Donovan's style."

"He seems nice."

"Nice enough."

"But married."

"_So_ married."

"Well, Sally could do worse."

"I guess." Anthea sighed. "Anderson and his wife openly go out with other people."

"What, really?" Lestrade grimaced.

"They don't break it off because his wife is Catholic." Anthea shrugged. "She doesn't want to go to Hell, or something."

"Hmm."

"He's a decent enough bloke." Anthea added. "Average at his job, not the brightest tool in the shed, but he's not horrible. I don't think marriage is in either of their agendas, so you probably don't have to worry about that."

Lestrade looked at her forlornly. "I wasn't even thinking marriage. Why would you make me think marriage?"

Anthea chuckled. "Daddy's little girl is all grown up and dating married men."

Lestrade made a muffled noise of extreme distress.

"This is definitely Donovan getting back at you for telling her about our non-existent relationship."

"Yup."

* * *

Lestrade was rolling out cinnamon bun dough and sprinkling generously with cinnamon sugar when Mycroft walked in and poked his head into the kitchens uninvited.

"Oh, hello there." Lestrade greeted as he rolled the dough and began cutting.

"Lestrade, I have need of your-..."

"No." Lestrade cut him off firmly.

"I didn't even-..."

"Nope."

Mycroft sighed. "Lestrade."

"_Nooo._" Lestrade drawled, drawing out the syllable as he lined his baking pan with raw little rolls and shoved them into the oven. "Mycroft, I am _not_ a full time agent. I run a diner, you know? And besides, I'm still sore from my car crash. Are you already finished with the Golem?"

"Yes. dumb as a stone, I believe you would be tickled pink to hear." Mycroft responded dryly.

Lestrade burst into laughter.

"How are your injuries?" Mycroft asked him.

"Horrible." Lestrade replied immediately. "I am in no condition to move."

"Shall I call a doctor?" Mycroft offered, eyebrow raised.

"My code of manliness dictates that I must persevere in stoic silence." Lestrade said as he lowered a pan of cooling buns off the top of the oven. "Snitch?"

Mycroft barely managed to catch the warm bun tossed at him. "I really shouldn't." he sighed longingly.

"Go on, just a bite." Lestrade egged him on, ripping off a piece of his own bun and popping it into his mouth. "They're hot out of the oven and quite perfect, if I may say so myself."

After another moment's deliberation, Mycroft awkwardly nibbled at a little sugar frosting. His eyebrows rose a little as he made a little noise of approval.

Lestrade grinned triumphantly.

Mycroft caught his look and coughed self-consciously. "They are indeed... acceptable."

Lestrade slid a plate across the counter for Mycroft and the two hung around in the kitchen, eating while standing. A small part of Mycroft's brain berated him on both their lack of table manners.

It was strangely... domestic. In a way.

"One day, Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade sighed as he chewed. "One day you will come here without bringing your work along."

"I'm sure there are better places to be if I was free of crisis." Mycroft responded.

Lestrade's blinked and lowered his gaze to the delicacy in his hands. "Like?" he asked curiously.

Mycroft looked at him. "Like the Diogenes Club." he replied simply. Stating the obvious answer. The answer that really, anybody would know.

"You're still really bothered that I'm spying on you, aren't you?" Lestrade huffed.

"In this situation, I think I cannot afford not to be." Mycroft said. "Did you really expect otherwise?"

"No." Lestrade shook his head. "But, I've known you Holmeses for quite a long time now. I haven't taken any advantages, despite the many that Sherlock has given. I think I fully deserve to know what Mycroft Holmes does on his days off."

Mycroft just stared at him flatly.

Lestrade sighed and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Well_ I'm sorry_ for trying to talk to you like a normal human being! Do you know how frustrating you can be?"

"Maybe you should stop trying to talk to me like a 'normal human being'." Mycroft responded scathingly.

"And what are you, Mycroft?" Lestrade snapped. "A robot? An AI? A shapeshifter? An alien? Oh wait, you're not really alien, are you?"

Mycroft quickly staunched a chuckle.

"Point being..." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I think we're going to be stuck with each other for a long time. The least we can do is try to become friends."

Mycroft thought about that for a moment while he nibbled on his cinnamon roll. "I enjoy reading." he said finally. "The Diogenes Club is the most ideal place to do so, but that does not mean I read there all the time."

Lestrade grinned and nodded. "There we go. That's a start."

The chef hopped up and sat on the edge of the counter, smudging flour on the butt of his trousers, his legs swinging absently as he meticulously unraveled his hot pastry bit by torn bit.

And that was not how one traditionally eats a cinnamon bun. Mycroft had to physically restrain himself from commenting.

Lestrade had this sly look on his face as if he knew, but continued doing it for Mycroft's discomfort.

And knowing him, he was.

"By the way, your PA is my fake girlfriend now."

Mycroft choked on his bite.

Perhaps the sly look had absolutely nothing to do with cinnamon buns and the intricate ways to eat them.


End file.
